


In the Heart of the Heart of Detroit

by Jane_Lu, Subaru, thenizu



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Existential Angst, Experimental Style, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Love/Hate, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Relationship, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_Lu/pseuds/Jane_Lu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subaru/pseuds/Subaru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenizu/pseuds/thenizu
Summary: Hank Anderson didn’t ask to drive through the city at night, with an android partner at his backseat who doesn’t know how to shut up. At best it asks probing questions to which he has no answers. At worst it reminds him that he can never run away far enough from himself, or from Connor, for the matter.He couldn’t leave Connor be, and neither would Connor. The edge they were inevitably driving each other over has never been so near.





	1. Gratiot Avenue

**Author's Note:**

> And here is my submission for the Hankcon BB 2019 (art pending)! It took a lot more effort to produce than I expected, mostly because I'm experimenting with writing styles liberally. The result is this monster of a fic far exceeding 10,000 words and an unconventional storyline XD
> 
> Charlie LeDuff's "Who Killed Aiyanna Stanley Jones?" is my main inspiration for this idea, while William Gass' "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country" inspired the title (I originally also wanted to utilize his writing style but ran out of time lol). This is more of a reimagining of the Hank and Connor plotline of the game, with way more conversations and moments between them and exploration of how they affect each other. Case-solving has really taken a backseat here, and now we have Hank and Connor trying to understand what it means to be in Detroit at the moment.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading, and will add chapters as soon as I finish final edits! This project really allowed me to live the dream of having art drawn for it uwu

Hank Anderson often wondered what had possessed him to agree taking the android along the first time. In a way, he would have never suffered its incessant questions if he just stood his ground. But the thing that called itself Connor, that machine that had no right to look so human, had simply cocked its head to one side (likely prompted by whatever esoteric line of programming) and had the nerve to look slightly affronted when Hank told it to fuck off, middle finger included.

“We may not be working on current cases, but you are on call this evening, Lieutenant.” Connor intoned in the articulate stilted voice that still sent Hank’s skin crawling with revulsion, “If you wish to be patrolling during this time, I must insist my coming along. As your partner, I am obligated to accompany you on all official affairs.”

Hank suddenly wanted to drown himself in drink again, “Aren’t androids supposed to do as they’re fucking told? Get lost to whatever place you machines go when you’re not up trying to play pretend human.”

Connor, unfortunately, had a reasonable response to that, “Since my present company is the main obstacle to your agreement, I will sit at your backseat and put myself in sleep mode. Consider me as a computer awaiting instructions, or as a piece of baggage in the back of your car. My only condition is that I accompany you.”

Hank began to move towards the front lobby, but Connor immediately fell into step behind him, smart polished shoes tapping against the marble flooring with unnaturally-precise rhythm. He slapped his ID at the turnstile and swept into the reception area. The tapping didn’t stop.

He suddenly wished that he knew more about android technology so he could put it on standby mode or something. Of course, decking it good would probably do the trick, but Hank was sure it wouldn’t have looked good, android partner or no, not to mention how CyberLife would react to the DPD’s apparent abuse of company property.

Hank did turn around when he reached the front entrance. To its credit, the android stopped in its tracks and met his gaze evenly. In all appearances, Connor was a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. Brown eyes set in a broad unassuming face, dark brown hair slicked-back with not a strand out of place except for a cowlick that fell over the forehead, neatly-arranged gray jacket and pressed black pants, Connor admittedly cut a professional image that in another world where his partner had been human, might have inspired Hank to pull his own wardrobe together for once.

Then the LED circle at the android’s right temple blinked rapidly a few times, and Connor flashed him a small smile.

“After you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re not giving me a fucking choice, aren’t you.”

“Like I said before, I will be like a laptop you bring to work. You may consider me as a portable device.”

At this point Hank had decided it was just easier to take the thing along instead of arguing with it further. For a machine, it was surprisingly stubborn in achieving what it wanted.

Wanted? Could a machine want at all? This one likely came with instructions to accompany its assigned partner during work hours. For all its convincing human appearance, it’s just another computer trying too hard to blur the lines between itself and its creators.

“Portable device my ass,” Hank snorted. If the android was programmed with some sort of ability for dry humor he was going to have to call up CyberLife’s technicians to turn it down. “Computers and tablets and whatnot don’t give attitude. Get in the car, and keep your mouth shut.”

* * *

Five minutes later Hank was driving down 3rd Avenue, perhaps with more vigor than usual. Connor sat at the back, eyes closed, LED blinking on and off, the blue glow from the arm band and model number casting a soft light across the seats. All was silent, except for the car engine’s muffled rumble.

Hank exhaled through his teeth and tapped his fingers against the wheel. This was one of the reasons why he never made the switch to an electric vehicle despite receiving his unmarked cruiser more than twenty years ago. These things were too quiet; there was something unsettling about being surrounded by the sound of nothing. He could put on some Knights, but he really didn’t need the furious clamor of drums and guitar riffs battering at him as he tore through Detroit in the AM’s.

Fuck, what a mess, Hank thought. Detroit was going to shit as usual, even when CyberLife revitalized much of the inner-city infrastructure with android manufacturing. With the decline of employment came the rise of people with too much time to themselves, and now the deviant cases. Where was the time when technology itself simply stayed put and out of homicide? And now here he was, assigned to deviant investigation and saddled with an android to play detective with.

Connor showed up yesterday, standing in front of Hank’s desk at the station when he finally staggered in around 11, head still pounding with a hangover. Jeffrey had called Hank to his office immediately. After a profanity-laden shouting match (probably another page in the apparent fucking novel that was his disciplinary folder), Hank was officially in charge of Detroit’s newest problem.

Jeffrey must have known all this, from Hank’s dislike of androids to incompetence with tech. But deep down Hank knew that his former classmate probably hoped that the deviant investigation would change his work performance. Showing up late to work frequently, getting drunk on call, assaulting coworkers, sometimes Hank was vaguely surprised that he still kept his job.

This must be why Jeffrey insisted on his additional partnership with Connor. Today the android had actually dropped by his house early in the morning to drag him to work. After they arrived at the station, it began to engage in one of the most painful small talks that Hank had the displeasure of knowing. Then at lunch, it proceeded to criticize his lunch of choice (a Chicken Feed burger and a soda) and suggested some shitty vegan alternative. When Hank left for Jimmy’s early afternoon, Connor firmly reminded Hank to keep his blood alcohol content below 0.08%, translating roughly to one drink according to Hank’s age and other shit that Hank tuned out as soon as he heard “one drink”. He needed a hell lot more after enduring all this.

He was pretty sure that the role of “partner” didn’t include this level of nannying. And now this, insisting to accompany Hank in his aimless night driving he did once in a while when he was sick of knocking back drinks until he passed out. “Patrolling” his ass. Only the beat cops handled that kind of work. Let the android believe what it wanted to; it wouldn’t understand Hank’s unexplainable impulse to get behind the wheel and drive until he barely knew where he was.

He really needed to stop thinking. It was really unusual that Hank was even doing so in the first place, over an android, no less. Connor’s presence had no impact in his life. It made no difference whether he took this thing along.

Hank turned onto Gratiot Avenue and accelerated until the view began to blur. The city was his at moments like this and not at the same time. People became indistinct shadows, anonymous figures that hid from knowing and he from the obligation of having to pay attention. Store signs streaked by too fast to read, their lights painting the inside of the car in multicolor hues that shifted quickly and was gone in seconds. Stripped of its details, Detroit was a simulacrum of urban bustle. Nothing could hide the dark windows and yawning doorways that appeared once in every six or seven buildings, or the fact that Hank could not get away far enough from himself.

* * *

For Connor, sleep mode wasn’t as much a nap than a temporary disabling of his peripheral functions. He retained most of his ability to perceive his surroundings, which was why his systems came back online when he detected that the car was going at least 8 miles over the speed limit. His processor immediately concluded that this was both a danger to Anderson and a violation of traffic law. As Anderson’s new partner, it was Connor’s duty to prevent him from getting into trouble.

“Lieutenant!”

“Fuck!” Anderson swore loudly. The car swerved, throwing Connor to one side before righting again. It did slow down somewhat. “I thought you were supposed to be fucking asleep.”

“My sensors inform me that you are eight miles over the speed limit.”

“What’s it to you? Let me do the driving, and you the sleeping. Leave me alone.”

Connor activated his analytical interface and assessed the current situation. Anderson remained hostile in this partnership, no change from yesterday’s status, though surprisingly he had fallen into the 16% chance of allowing Connor to come along right now. They were currently 7.3 miles from the station. The time was 11:03PM. The temperature was 64F, with a 14% chance of precipitation. It was a surprisingly clear night for Detroit in late August. 

“Where are we heading?”

Anderson gave an exasperated sigh, “If you try to make small talk again, I swear I’ll stop and dump you on the road.”

Another acerbic response to his innocuous question. So that attempt to know the lieutenant more did annoy him. Connor considered it a success though, having obtained valuable information such as Anderson’s dog, his music tastes and favorite sports team. Connor’s processor recalculated possibilities, and he responded in a manner that would most likely loosen up his partner a little. If Anderson found it distasteful in being subjected to questioning, then reversing the subject should help.

“Very well. Then is there anything you wish to know about me, the prototype RK800 android?”

Anderson didn’t reply right away, but the absence of an immediate scathing comeback meant there was a 57% chance that he was finally going to take their conversations seriously.

“Yeah,” Anderson returned sardonically, “Why did CyberLife make you so funny-looking?”

Never mind. His calculations were wrong once more. Funny-looking. Connor checked the description to conclude that this was not a compliment referring to his ability at humor.

“I was designed to interact harmoniously with humans and to evoke trust with both my appearance and voice. CyberLife ran thousands of facial characteristics to come up with the final design that is me.” 

“Well, they fucked up.”

Connor’s processor suddenly skipped a couple strings of programming as he tried to make meaning of that reply. Anderson obviously aimed that jab at CyberLife, but it was also a derisive comment towards him. Something in him reacted. As error messages popped up in his vision, Connor saw the need to correct his partner.

“Lieutenant, I am offended. I am a state-of-the-art investigator model android—”

Anderson made a loud burst of sound, which continued for a few seconds before Connor realized it as mocking laughter.

“Oh God, they really did program you to have an ego. Wonders of technology, and they use it to give an android detective the ability to be offended!”

This was yet another unexpected development with Anderson. Connor had calculated that it would take at least a week before his partner would start getting over his aversion to speaking with an android. In this evening alone, Anderson had thwarted his probability calculations three times. This was a worrying sign; it meant that Connor could not rely on his processor as much to direct his mission to develop a good relationship with his partner. For now, it was his duty to assure the other that Connor was capable at his designated purpose.

“I would have you know that I was the android that resolved the hostage situation at the Phillips apartment a few days ago. You can count on me to assist the investigation with exemplary results.”

“Yeah yeah, can it. Save your prattle for an actual case.”

There was a tone of finality in Anderson’s voice, so Connor did not give a reply to that. He instead added new observations about his partner to his report. Anderson seemed to respond well to sarcasm and dry humor. He also reacted with ironic amusement to near-human behavior in androids.

He turned his attention back to the present. No dispatches yet, though there was a 54% chance that it would be in Eastern Detroit based on investigation data from the past twenty years. When Connor checked in with their current location, the results made errors spring up again, especially when he recalled that Anderson had said they were going on patrol.

“Lieutenant, you are currently outside city bounds. If you continue at your current speed we will arrive at Mount Clemens in six minutes.”

“Really can’t keep your fucking mouth shut more than six minutes, can you?”

“I am concerned that you have taken a wrong turn. If you take a left at Elmway Street, another left at Weideman Street and then right at Holly Street—”

“I know where I am.” Anderson said curtly.

“Then why do you drive if—”

“Look, I don’t have to explain everything to you. I got it handled, so you can go the fuck back to sleep.”

Connor’s social relations programming told him it was a bad idea to press Anderson for an explanation, so he was forced to leave the issue. This time he sensed that the conversation was officially at an end. The probability that his partner would speak to him for the rest of the afternoon was 12%.

Anderson continued to drive north. Connor watched the outline of his profile for a good 10 minutes to see if he would turn back. He couldn’t see his partner’s face except for the shaggy lines of his beard and shoulder-length hair and his large rough hands gripping the wheel tightly. It was quite a fitting image for Anderson; Connor had been unable to gauge him accurately since their first meeting, and he was still having trouble even after conversing with him.

Connor was designed to assist human law enforcement and to act as the perfect partner to any human he worked with. His social relations program took care of most of the latter, guiding him to say the most appropriate words in given situations and to add a more human touch to his behavior in order to befriend humans easily. But Connor was barely able to get the bare minimum of information from his partner. His processor could hardly predict Anderson’s behavior. He could not understand what drove Anderson as a human.

“Been doing it for a while.” The other suddenly spoke.

Connor blinked as he searched for what Anderson was referring to, “Your desire to drive, Lieutenant?”

“What else? All you need to know is that I’m not fucking lost. I know where I am, but I can’t tell you where I want to be. Process that whatever way you want. It’s not like you machines can get it either.”

Anderson didn’t ignore him for the rest of the night. Connor took his reply in, perhaps a little more carefully than usual. This was the fourth time Anderson had fallen outside of his probability calculation. His partner was still testy, but he had attempted to explain his behavior. Perhaps Connor was finally making some progress.

However, when he tried to make meaning of his partner’s words, errors popped in his vision once more. What did Anderson mean when he said he didn’t know where he wanted to be? Every event had a cause and an effect; whatever happened in the present, in this case the “where I am”, had an effect on the future, the “to be”. There are no exceptions—

_Software instability ^_

Connor hurriedly paused all processing activity. His partner was truly beyond comprehension, even when he wasn’t being hostile. Connor was officially at a loss on how where to take their partnership. Several options existed. He could remain distant with Anderson and keep their interactions to the investigation only. Connor could try to warm him up so that Anderson would stop with the hostility and treat him with uninvolved indifference. He was unable to decide. There wasn’t enough data. His processor ran a few calculations and determined that more time should provide a clearer picture.

Before Connor placed himself in sleep mode once more, he briefly thought about the unpredictability of humans. Anderson was impossible to approach and easy to irritate. When he wasn’t ill-tempered, he was a mess of contradictions and inexplicable motives, by all means a difficult partner. Connor would have to handle him with care, though with no small amount of anticipation. Anderson was another investigation in himself, after all.


	2. Coffee Shop Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the shortest chapter out of the entire piece, but I really wanted to write awkward Connor gushing over Hank finally acknowledging his capability!

_ New Objective: Obtain performance evaluation from Lt. Anderson _

Connor’s mission list updated as soon as Anderson had expressed a desire for caffeine in the waiting period between paperwork and the Ortiz HK400’s interrogation. In a way he looked forward to tackling this one as much as the investigation itself; now his partner had witnessed his capabilities, he should have a new opinion of Connor. His processor was already running hundreds of simulations on how to indirectly ask for Anderson’s evaluation. 

Most stores in Detroit had their personnel replaced by androids, which is why Anderson could go to Petit Chat at 03:12AM. The café was two blocks from the station and saw steady patronage from DPD officers and office workers during the day. At night it was mostly empty. Apart from the AV500’s at the cash register and the kitchen, there was no other company except for him and Anderson.

As his partner retrieved his black coffee and sat down at the long window seat, Connor took the seat at his side. Anderson gave him a sidelong glance, but did not comment as he took a swig from the paper cup. He seemed in no mood to talk. Connor went for it anyways.

“I have sent a report to CyberLife concerning this investigation.” Connor stated.

Anderson made a noncommittal grunt.

“Interrogating an android is a precedent for the DPD. Do you want me to brief you on the HK400’s processing directives?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Anderson set down his coffee a little too hard. Some of the liquid splashed on the table, “I came here to get a break from work, so don’t bring fucking work back to me.”

The other’s curt words struck something in him. Connor knew he had done well in his designated purpose of aiding deviant investigation. He was able to reconstruct the act of murder itself and correctly deduce the suspect’s hiding place. He had saved hours of investigation time. He had acted the perfect partner in aiding Anderson in their work.

But somehow none of that had changed Anderson’s impression of him. Connor’s worth as a top-of-the-line investigative android meant nothing if his partner saw him as an annoyance. He recalled the night when he stood on the roof of the Phillips apartment, facing the PL400 android with Emma as hostage. 56 yards between them, the android’s feet on the roof’s edge, gun pressed against the girl’s right temple. Connor knew that if he had been unable to save Emma, her death would be his doing. Mission failed, the hostage’s life taken, his capabilities questioned.

As Connor got up to retrieve napkins for the spill, he could only think of his failure in both befriending Anderson and in showing his usefulness. This was partially on him, which meant his capabilities were in doubt. Him, CyberLife’s most advanced android model yet, unable to complete his designated functions.

When Connor got back, Anderson looked uncomfortable, his hand running through his disheveled gray hair, “Look, just… no work talk outside the station.”

“Duly noted, Lieutenant—”

“And no small talk either,” Anderson continued as he began to wipe the table, “I don’t know what your CyberLife programmers were smoking when they made you, but your conversation skills are shit. Some humans don’t need constant attention.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I will remain silent until your say-so.” He said.

Anderson waved a hand dismissively and turned back to his drink.

Connor sat down, placing his folded hands in his lap. So Anderson wasn’t berating Connor for his capabilities? He recalculated possibilities again. True enough, after some cross-referencing, Connor determined that his partner’s words had no spite towards his being. Anderson was just being his grumpy cynical self.

He had completed all the necessary paperwork and procedures back at the station, so there was nothing to do at the moment. His programming told him to go into sleep mode if his services were not required at the moment, but Connor overrode that suggestion. He would now observe his partner to hopefully gain enough information to coax him to be honest about Connor.

When he turned his vision on the other, the usual information about his name, rank and criminal record scrolled in front of him. Connor looked past the text at Anderson himself, now cast in full light for the first time since they first left the station. At 53 years old, Anderson looked far older with his shaggy gray hair and untrimmed beard. There was no trace of that proud sturdily-built blond man in his police record photo. Anderson was still tall, 6.2 feet to be exact, and still had piercing sky-blue eyes, but somehow he had diminished in stature. His worn brown coat and loose shirt of garish colors only enhanced his appearance as a worn-out police lieutenant who had seen too much.

“Why the fuck are you staring at me?” Anderson suddenly spoke, his eyes narrowed.

Connor’s social relations program blared the equivalent of a reprimand for violating this human manner. As he frantically groped for words through the realization that he might have ruined any chance of Anderson evaluating him, he went for the obvious appeasement.

“You are exceptionally dapper in your wardrobe, Lieutenant.”

“Oh God….” Anderson’s reply was incredulous, “You need a crash course in being human. No one says that anymore. Now go stare at the fucking window instead of creeping me out.”

Appeasement failed. Connor switched gears to humor instead.

“Yes, Lieutenant. I will now commence staring at the window until your say-so.”

Anderson groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

Connor offered a polite smile in return, although his social relations program insisted that the attempt to be funny was a failure. He had managed to prevent the situation from becoming awkward, but he was running out of ways to prompt Anderson to evaluate him after dropping so many hints.

Silence lapsed between them again. Anderson turned his attention back towards the window and took another sip from his cup. His partner was definitely comfortable in the absence of conversation. Even in the car before Connor made his presence known, Anderson had seemed to be in his own space, content to spend the night in his own thoughts. Anderson had been true in saying that not all humans need constant attention, and Connor noted that down too in his personal notes. Perhaps his mission to obtain Anderson’s evaluation should wait, and that a second investigation would be necessary for Anderson to comment on Connor’s capabilities.

A notification blinked in the corner of his vision. Detective Reed had registered the HK400 to interrogation room 3. Connor stood up and turned to address his partner.

“We should head back. The HK400 is ready for interrogation.”

“Let’s go,” Anderson tossed back the rest of his drink, “Reed’s probably already had a crack at it. I’ll like to have a real detective handle the interrogation, and maybe we can all get some fucking sleep.”

Connor agreed, “You could use at least 12 hours of rest, Lieutenant. Your lowered temperature and blood pressure means that the caffeine would only work for about two hours.” 

“Without you the investigation would’ve taken all night. I guess you aren’t just some android with shitty social skills and a goofy face.” Anderson eyed him with clear approval in his face.

Connor’s processor ran several cycles before it registered.

Praise.

Praise and approval from Lieutenant Anderson.

Praise from his difficult partner he couldn’t yet figure out, who Connor somehow offended almost constantly.

Objective Completed.

_ Software instability ^ _

Errors flooded his vision as he frantically tried to make meaning of his partner’s words in context. But try as he might, Connor could not formulate a response, or even the correct line of processing. All he knew was that he got praised despite offending the other so many times, that he would try his hardest to get another one, and that he would break through the Lieutenant’s unapproachable shell to make friends with him so that Anderson would finally praise him proper.

_ “You did good, Connor. I’m proud of you.” _

_ “I’m glad to have you as my partner.” _

“Alright, what’s your fucking malfunction?” Connor was dimly aware of Anderson waving a hand in front of his eyes.

“I’m… I’m fine, Lieutenant.” He managed to stutter out, “Just a CPU cycle error.”

“Well, don’t break on me. I don’t know if I have to reimburse CyberLife out of my paycheck.”

Connor regained most of his motor functions to follow Anderson out of the coffee shop and back into the streets. He should be formulating an interrogation plan right now. Instead he brought up his core mission list, in which at the very top included “Investigate, pursue, and apprehend deviants and send them to CyberLife for analysis”. Below that, Connor added “Develop good relationship with Lieutenant Anderson”.


	3. Packard Plant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Packard Plant still be abandoned in 2038? Who knows? It is quite difficult to repurpose 4 million square feet of a factory in disuse, even with its historical significance. Packard is also located on the East Side of Detroit, which probably sees less rapid urban development in comparison to downtown. What is possible is that Hank and Connor probably wouldn't have been able to access it so easily, but I'm willing to overlook that for the sake of plot XD

Hank ducked his head as he passed through the turnstile. He had made good progress so far, managing to pack up his belongings discreetly and weaving his way through desks unspotted. If he picked up his pace right about now, he could get out and into his car before the other noticed—

“Lieutenant! I’m coming.”

Fuck. Hank swallowed an exasperated groan and straightened himself up. Figures that the investigator android would be so perceptive, although fuck knows why it insisted on following him everywhere, especially when he really didn’t want its company after what happened in the interrogation room.

“Please take me along,” Connor bounded up to him, “I will remain silent at the back of your car.”

Hank grumbled, “And look how well that turned out last time.”

“Some humans don’t need constant attention. I learned that from you!” Connor smiled. It still hadn’t gotten it quite right, its lips too stiff and showing way too much teeth. Hank shuddered.

“Wipe that fucking excuse of a smile off your face. I liked you better when you weren’t so… disgustingly upbeat.”

It was still better than what Connor had been two days ago. That morning the first thing Hank saw when he entered the station was Connor standing by his desk, a coffee and a box of donuts in both hands and a thousand kilowatt beam on its face. Hank did a double-take, sure that he had somehow woken to some weird fever dream, when the android opened its mouth and trilled in the most obnoxiously cheery voice Hank had ever heard,

“Good morning, Lieutenant! I got you breakfast!”

Hank’s only consolation that he got to deck Gavin, who started guffawing uncontrollably, and sentence Connor to paperwork for the rest of the morning.

He really hoped he didn’t break that tincan back at the coffee shop. It sure seemed like it; Connor recently began to act like pleasing Hank was its primary objective. Fortunately it took Hank’s advice about leaving him alone seriously and didn’t try to make small talk too often. But Connor dialed everything else up by ten, getting Hank coffee, reporting scores for the Detroit Gears, recommending dog food, tracking tours for Knight of the Black Death and tackling new cases with an almost desperate fervor. Hank had to give it a pep talk about subtlety. For CyberLife’s most advanced android, Connor was surprisingly inept at mingling with humans.

If the deviant hadn’t shot itself in the interrogation room two days ago, he might have actually had the heart to be more kind to Connor.

Hank had overseen a couple of nasty interrogations. He hadn’t thought much about questioning the DPD’s first android suspect and it had predictably been unresponsive at first. But after Connor got a confession, that thing grown progressively more stressed. It began to plead with genuine tears in its eyes. It behaved exactly like a distressed human suspect would in its situation. When it lay on the table, bullet hole torn through the forehead and an agonized expression twisting its face, Hank could not help but think that they had caused the death of an actual sentient being.

This was all fucking messed up, and Connor had remained completely unaffected. “CyberLife cannot obtain adequate data from deactivated deviants” was all Connor said afterwards. And then it proceeded to try to win Hank over like nothing had happened, like a machine designed to fulfill its mission, nothing more.

Hank just about had enough. He really looked forward to driving alone too.

Connor slid into the backseat after Hank shut the driver’s door and started the engine. As Hank began to back out of his spot, he caught a glimpse of Connor’s temple LED spinning yellow in the rearview mirror, which is all he could see of the other in the dark. But he could definitely feel Connor’s gaze boring into him. Probably trying to determine how to approach him, not because it wanted to, but because of some code that told it to befriend Hank as a partner.

Which meant that everything it did had no real meaning.

Hank suddenly regretted not going to Jimmy’s today.

“Where are we heading today?” Connor spoke with an inquisitive lilt.

“Fuck knows.”

Hank turned around and peeled onto 3rd Avenue, passing gleaming storefronts and flashing advertisements. He distracted himself with Connor long enough. In a way, he missed not having an obligation to anyone. Everyone at the station left him alone, him and his drink and his dog and the disconnected city. He knew that wherever he drove, it would never be in the districts where CyberLife and their androids had made Detroit into a façade of prosperity. Much of the city, including both the East Side and West Side, remained largely unchanged from his childhood. Both were still full of unoccupied houses and buildings crumbling with age.

He resisted the urge to floor the gas pedal. A significant number of cars still filled the streets at 7pm, not to mention that Connor would definitely be the first to call him out. Instead Hank turned right into Piquette Avenue, a quiet narrow road in a residential district that cut through half of Midtown.

“You seem… distracted, Lieutenant,” Connor said, “Was it the outcome of the Ortiz investigation?”

Hank felt a chill run down his back. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“I told you to leave the fucking work talk at the station.” He had to spit out his words.

“Very well, Lieutenant.”

The reply’s too polite, too calculated. Hank didn’t know how it came to this, that only an android could dare to approach him and yet be incapable of anything genuine. He had sworn to avoid their company as much as he could three years ago. Looking at their expressionless faces, or even worse, the times when they imitated human emotion, always dredged up thoughts Hank kept buried by layers of drink and night driving.

He really should have gone to Jimmy’s tonight, or straight home. Anything was better than this machine who was somehow more effective in forcing Hank to think than any real human in the past three years.

Hank was about to, fingers resting on the right blinker, when Connor spoke again. Unlike before, its voice had no hint of inquiry, or even intention.

“You seem to know Detroit very well.”

Hank sighed and replied against his better judgement, “I fucking better. Grew up in this shitty place.”

“Detroit is not, according to the dictionary meaning of ‘shitty’, worthless or contemptible. In fact, according to at least 24 ‘The Best US City to Live in 2038’ lists, Detroit made it within top five.”

Of course Connor would say something along those lines. Any machine would, based on the data it collects, the exact amount of dollars CyberLife brought to the city, the percentage of residents with an income above 60K. Hank shouldn’t have expected anything more.

“There’s the shit you find on your inbuilt Google, and there’s the actual shit you see. Don’t try to correct the human who’s been here since 1985.”

Connor’s LED flashed yellow again, this time for a solid ten seconds or more, before it responded, “Then please correct me instead, Lieutenant. I have been active in Detroit for a mere two months. I would like to know your city better through your perspective.”

Hank suddenly felt a strange mixture of disbelief and absurd amusement. He knew that Connor was incapable of “would like’s”. Hell, what did it even know about “I” to begin with, other than another attempt to sound human? He shouldn’t believe for one second that Connor actually expressed interest beyond a sad try to befriend him again. 

Yet when Hank looked at the mirror again to see Connor’s expectant face flash into view with a passing streetlight, he couldn’t remember when was the last time he had company for this long. How many times had he sat alone at Jimmy’s trying to drown his thoughts, alone at his dining table where he never found the courage to decide his own end, and alone in his car going somewhere searching for something beyond his reach, here in a city that had become too strange to remain part of his memory? His own voice had begun to sound strange to himself after speaking more than he ever did in three years.

Before Hank knew it, the words left him in a rush, “Fuck knows if it’s my city anymore, or if it ever was. We’re on East Grand now. Might as well go all the way.”

The area they were in used to be an industrial district populated with concrete lots half-reclaimed by shrubbery and weeds and the occasional two-story gray-faced factory. Now SWISH had set up most of its manufacturing plants around the old General Motors assembly, sleek discreet buildings taking up entire blocks and asphalt plots full of new autonomous cars ready for shipping. There was still significant activity going on, mostly the transport vehicles traversing the lots and android workers performing routine inspections.

However, a pair of long four-story buildings connected by a skybridge on the second floor cut the industrial landscape in half, a dark forbidding shape that rose against the lit downtown skyline. Neat square windows lined the buildings, some gaping spaces and some still containing the frames of broken glass. The red brick that covered most of the exterior walls were crumbling into dust, with many sections almost entirely exposing the desolate interior.

“Isn’t this the old Packard Automotive Plant that closed down in 1958?” Connor sounded genuinely curious.

Hank slowed the car down to stop right under the skybridge, “The largest auto plant in the country, and part of Detroit’s former lifeblood. Manufacturing has always been part of the city’s identity. My father and most of my extended family gave those factories their entire lives, but that didn’t stop them from being laid off when it closed.”

“My research tells me that there were more than 40,000 workers employed here at peak. Why would anyone decide to affect the lives of that many people?”

“Detroit always moves forward whether you want it or not, ” Hank said,  “ Our livelihood depended on what entrepreneurs got lucky with, not what we wanted to make of it. First the cars, now the androids. We’ll see how long CyberLife might last before giving out like everything else.”

Hank had only left the city twice in his life, first when his father sought work in Chicago after losing his job and second for college. But in the two times he came back to Detroit, he always felt like he returned to a vastly different place with all the familiar sights in the wrong places. Nothing remained constant except for the ruins that crumbled a little more every year, that remained on the edge of Detroit’s rapid change.

“CyberLife brought more than 60 million in revenue to Detroit, which is five times the amount the auto industry ever produced,” Connor sounded doubtful, “This revenue enabled the city government to finally invest in the highest infrastructure spending for the 12 th consecutive year. All observable data suggests that CyberLife’s profits will continue to increase by 23% each year and that Detroit will continue to benefit from it.”

Hank felt an incoming headache throb at his temples, “Can you go for one fucking minute without quoting numbers at me? Of course I know what CyberLife did for the city. You’re the one who asked me to tell you about Detroit through a human’s perspective, so at least act like you remember saying that.”

Connor had the nerve to look slightly chastened, LED blinking yellow with an occasional red flashing in between. Hank sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Here he was, making conversation with a machine, and becoming pointlessly affected by its reactions. What the hell, he might as well indulge it and get it over with, if only to get it to shut up later.

“Detroit is a city of progress,” Hank gestured vaguely towards the abandoned plant, “Unfortunately the direction of progress is less straightforward. Packard is only one of the many that came looking for it. The company got progress for sure, in both its earnings and later decline. I suppose… growing up in a city that wavers between decline and prosperity is… strange, to say the least. You see those reminders everywhere, which somehow remain even after everything else changes.”

“This automotive plant is 135 years old,” A hint of genuine awe seemed to enter Connor’s voice, “The concept of a place being forgotten by generations of change is foreign to me.”

When Hank looked into the rearview mirror again, he saw Connor pressed up against the car window, LED spinning yellow rapidly and a look of wonder spreading across its face.

“I wonder what is it like to grow with Detroit, to see the city change as you mature with the years? Is this why you drive, Lieutenant? To track the city’s progress before you can forget?”

Hank suddenly felt exposed, as if someone had yanked back a curtain before he was ready to face the public to leave him teetering on the edge of a precipice. What the fuck was wrong with this android, saying things that no machine should be able to. What machine had the ability to sound so fascinated out of its own interest, to sound so human? 

“Lieutenant?” Connor prodded.

“That’s not why I drive, and I doubt my reason’s as fucking poetic as you say,” Hank retorted, “What’s your objective now, eh? Figure out Hank Anderson and his shitty habits so you can be best buds? Never happening.”

“I cannot deny that is one of my end goals, Lieutenant. But I am equally invested in understanding you as an individual. You make for fascinating company, and I find myself looking forward to our conversations.”

Fuck, he couldn’t handle this anymore. Hank cut the engine, yanked his keys out of the ignition and was out of the car before he could catch a glimpse of Connor’s face. He strode a good ten yards out into the open, loose gravel crunching under his feet and a stiff wind whipping his jacket loose.

The turmoil that had been brewing in him since the interrogation seemed to reach its peak. He wished he could walk out right now, away from that infuriating android and the unwelcome thoughts it seemed to bring to the surface. Hank wanted solitude, but why couldn’t he leave it alone? Is it because Connor is a machine, with none of the complexities that came with human company? Then why was he so disturbed when it hardly reacted to the deviant’s death, yet filled with an ineffable ache when it showed semblance of human sincerity?

Hank exhaled with a violent huff, his fingers curling into clenched fists. The next time he went anywhere, he was going to make it very clear that he wanted to be alone. Taking the fucking android along had been more mentally taxing than he ever expected. The hell it was just a portable device. Laptops don’t cause this amount of emotional upheaval.

Another car door closed with a thud, before another set of footsteps followed and stopped about five feet behind him.

“Please tell me how I have offended you.” Connor’s voice had retaken its meticulous wording.

“So you can run that giant brain of yours and calculate a million other ways to not offend me? Don’t fucking bother.”

“Lieutenant, it is my duty to—”

“Can it. You’re a fucking machine, so start acting like it!” Hank suddenly found that he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out as he spun around to face Connor, “You don’t want to befriend me because you want to. To hell with wanting to know Detroit through my perspective. You’re just saying that because you’re programmed to. I’m just another piece of data in your mission to hunt deviants or whatever, and you’re here to analyze me so that you can, I don’t know, test your shitty social relations thing. Nothing you do is meaningful, so stop trying to pretend it is!”

His voice seemed to ring across the abandoned factory grounds, a loud alien sound that took up too much disparate presence in this deserted space. Hank was almost tempted to flinch at the sudden sense of uncalled exposure, but he forced himself to face the android. He wanted to look at it in the eyes when it responded, to see how it would react at being called out for something it probably couldn’t even comprehend.

A great sense of exhaustion suddenly washed over Hank. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so emotional over anything, or anyone. Why the fuck would an android be the one to force him to react? That thing wasn’t alive. It had no real interest in him. It didn’t even have enough of an identity to ask such questions.

Connor stood still, regarding Hank with an impassive look on a face absent of all human quirks, no flickering of eyes, or furrowing of brows that betrayed its reactions. But its LED ring spun red rapidly.

“You are correct in saying that I act according to my programming, Lieutenant.” Connor said, “I can only adapt and modify my behavior towards you based on our interactions, so what is left is your end of communications. I am whoever you want me to be. If you wish to believe that our partnership has meaning, then it will. If you are adamant that I am only a machine, then I am.”

Hank was surprised by the rush of disappointment in him. Before he could begin to make sense of Connor’s reply, the android spoke again.

“But if I can convince you in any form, I wish that you will choose the former option. I… I…” Connor suddenly stumbled on his words, a move so undeniably un-machine-like, “I… find myself using much of my processing power to contemplate our interactions, and would prefer it if you treated me as a thinking being able to make meaning.”

For some reason this time Connor’s admittedly-abstruse declaration sounded much sincerer than before, perhaps because this time Hank could see the android’s face. Connor met his gaze evenly without change of expression, but his brown eyes seemed softer, the lines of his face more gentle. For the first time, Hank could almost mistake him as human.

Was there something more to Connor? Hank had already witnessed, and was now sure that Connor was frequently shifting between two modes, one mechanical and designed to please humans as his mission, the other intensely curious for his own sake and for some reason, in Hank. He was different from all other androids Hank had encountered. He couldn’t help but think that maybe Connor had an identity locked behind layers of predetermined programming, a part that wanted to know more about the city he was made in, a part that was earnestly trying to learn about human behavior, or even a part that  _ was  _ disturbed when the HK400 deviant shot himself.

Fuck, Hank couldn’t do this anymore. All remaining desire to continue the conversation left him. A sense of profound weariness weighed on his entire being. Hank wasn’t going to find answers anywhere for now, other than discovering more questions along the way.

“Enough for tonight, tincan,” Hank sighed for the umpteenth time this evening, “Get back to the car. It’s getting fucking cold.”


	4. Chicken Feed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter with light shenanigans between Hank and Connor with a light sprinkle of existentialism.

Connor supposed that he was currently experiencing a close approximation of the emotion of joy.

He caught four more deviants in the past couple of days. Amanda approved of his progress and efficiency (although she did recommend delegating less of his processes to interactions with Hank) and encouraged him to keep it up. Captain Fowler’s scowl frequency had gone down by 12%. Reed had begun to greet him with a curt nod instead of the usual “Fuck off, dipshit”. Officers Brown and Chen had taken to engaging him in small talk during breaks. And most of all, according to his calculations, Anderson finally transitioned beyond the “Hostile” stage into “Neutral”.

Connor could not wait to see what happened next.

_Software Instability ^_

Those notifications had become more common. Amanda also commented on it, but she told him that as a prototype, software instabilities were likely to occur and would be recorded to improve the official RK800 build. What she didn’t know was that those notices usually appeared mostly in Anderson’s presence.

Connor looked over at Anderson’s desk, where his partner was shrugging on a coat and gathering his phone, keys and wallet. The current time was 1:13PM, September 14th. Anderson had yet to take his lunch, there was a 92% chance that he was heading out for break.

“What are you eating today?” He queried.

“Chicken Feed. Before you harp on me again, I haven’t eaten there for the past fucking week. Gary probably thinks I’m dead or something.”

"Quite the opposite, Lieutenant. In your case, staying away from the food truck is good for your health. The owner should not be overly upset at your absence."

"Gettin’ snarkier by the day, Connor." Anderson grumbled.

Connor blinked, the sound of his name decidedly foreign coming from his partner. He ran cross references on their conversations beginning from the first day of their partnership, and realized that this was the first time Anderson referred to him by name.

_Software Instability ^_

His CPU cycles stuttered for half a second, followed by error notices assaulting his vision. Anderson didn't just see him as an object. Anderson finally acknowledged his partner. Anderson saw the timing right to call him by name, and Connor was finally more than a reluctant partner assignment.

"Fucking android crashed again. Pull yourself together. The witness interview reports need to be completed before three. I'll be back within the hour." His partner began to head for the turnstiles.

"Lieutenant, wait! Let me come with you."

The words were out before his social relations program was able to recommend a reply, before his processor could determine the benefits and probabilities of such a suggestion or before he could even acknowledge his obedience to the other's commands. Connor at first frantically tried to analyze the reasons that could have led to this anomaly and send a report to CyberLife. But even as he ran reconstruction after reconstruction, Connor knew that time spent with Anderson was much more productive than completing the paperwork he was 81% done with. He would continue to accompany his partner, to see how Anderson's warming attitude would affect their interactions.

Unfortunately Anderson seemed less enthusiastic about his proposal, "What the hell for? Last time I checked, androids don't eat. Knowing you, you would probably bring up work again or stare at me."

"Please, Lieutenant." Connor pressed.

Earlier that week he found something in his social relations program called puppy eyes, described to be handy in persuading others. He used that too.

Anderson's scowling face instantly melted away into resignation, "Fucking unbelievable. Fine, you can come. But don't expect me to entertain you."

"No need to worry. I find being with you is enough entertainment on my part."

A gagging sound came from Reed's desk, "Oh my God. Get a room, you two."

"Fuck off, Gavin. No one asked for your input." Anderson retorted, "C’mon, Connor."

Objective completed. As he followed Anderson out into the lobby, Connor noted that it hardly took effort to have his partner acquiesce this time. Perhaps Anderson had a softer disposition than he had observed so far. In any case, he should use the eyes more often.

Connor also decided that he preferred the sound of his name coming from Anderson, sharp hard emphasis on the “C” and softly rolling the “r” in his gruff rumbling voice.

_Software Instability ^_

* * *

Chicken Feed was parked under I75 at the far end of Russell Street in the Milwaukee Junction. The cradle of Detroit’s auto industry and a crucial railway confluence was surprisingly quiet, not counting tourists heading east towards the Poletown Plant and the original Cadillac assembly plants. Apart from android workers toiling to unload train shipments, there was little human activity to be seen, which was why the barely-legal food truck could operate without immediate repercussions.

Connor thought maybe he should point that out, but Anderson was already digging into his burger with gusto at one of the standing seats. A quick scan revealed that it contained more than 245 calories than the recommended daily intake for a human of Anderson’s age. However, according to his calculations based on all past interactions, his partner would unlikely act on his recommendations. Connor was beginning to understand that Anderson always had his reasons for his behavior, whether he himself knew it or not, and that he would stand by his decisions no matter what.

This likely included the night driving. Anderson may say he had no idea where he was going, but Connor knew that there must be a final destination. Anderson wasn’t just trying the drive the hours away or out on a stress-relieving session. He was likely searching for something, or attempting to. His mood always changed when he was in the car, less sarcastic, more likely to open himself, more emotional than he ever was in the station. 

He was such a curious human. Connor wanted to understand him. He genuinely meant it when he told Anderson that he wished their partnership had meaning, that he was growing partial to his company. Anderson was the most interesting person to interact with in the station. He didn’t engage in command language or treat him like a new piece of equipment. At least 75% of his directed speech to Connor assumed that he could respond in kind as a fellow human, not a machine.

“Stop staring at me when I eat,” Anderson’s disapproving voice cut through his processes, “I told you that you don’t need to come. I'm uncomfortable enough as is that you have nothing to do at the moment.”

Connor shifted his vision to the burger in Anderson’s hands instead. It was rather tall, 4.3 inches to be exact, with a 0.5-inch-thick beef patty grilled medium-rare that still oozed with juices, and a heap of sliced red onions, half-melted cheddar cheese, sliced tomato, and shredded lettuce slathered in Baja sauce.

"I assume that you are uncomfortable because I am unable to join you in food consumption,” Connor said, “But if I could eat, I would like to try that burger. It would be an interesting experience to put something that unhealthy into my body."

Anderson released a muffled snort, put down his burger and looked at Connor with a skeptical expression, "You 'would like' to do a lot of things for a machine. What else is CyberLife's most advanced android capable of?"

Connor could not describe the sudden rush of exhilaration that seized his systems, but he knew that he had been looking forward to Anderson finally taking the initiative in knowing him better (although the probability of him doing so within the first month was 33% at best). He pulled up his technical description in his vision and began to rattle off the contents.

“I am a prototype RK800 model CyberLife android, the first of my kind to be designed for collaborative investigative work with human law enforcement. For this purpose, I have been equipped with a physical simulation software that enables me to reconstruct past events using analyzed evidence, as well as preconstructing future events based on probability calculations. I also possess a DNA sequencer, carbon-14 dating and drug testing kit in my oral cavity, in which I can place evidence into to instantly obtain analysis results—”

“Ugh, don’t fucking remind me,” Anderson made a disgusted face, “You need to stop doing that.”

Connor couldn’t understand his partner’s revulsion towards that particular practice. Placing samples in his mouth was a crucial step in his reconstruction processes, and he would not be able to operate as efficiently if he refrained from doing so.

“Lieutenant,” He attempted to explain, “My mouth is the equivalent of a small forensics lab. There is no difference between placing a slide into, for example, a DNA sequencing device and me sampling evidence.”

“The fuck there isn’t a difference. Principles, Connor! You’re literally stickin’ blood, red ice and whatever the fuck androids bleed _into_ your mouth! Why’d CyberLife even design you to look human? I would’ve been fine with you sampling evidence if you were, I don’t know, a Roomba or something.”

“I am also equipped for suspect interrogation and witness questioning, Lieutenant. If I appeared as an autonomous vacuum cleaner, I cannot perform those functions without incurring laughter from the other party.”

Anderson suddenly let his head fall into both hands as his shoulders began to shake. Concerned, Connor reached out a hand, ready to analyze his partner’s status with greater precision, until he realized that the other was convulsing with laughter.

“God, I would pay good money to see that!” Anderson wheezed, “Tell CyberLife to get going on RK800 Roombas, would you?”

Had Connor made a joke? His social relations program had not directed him to do so, yet Anderson’s amusement was genuine. He engaged in many instances of sarcastic chuckles or mocking laughter, but Connor had never seen him like this, eyes bright with mirth, brows crinkled, lips pulled upwards, laughing at something that Connor said.

_Software Instability ^_

“I have recorded your user feedback and sent it to CyberLife for consideration.” Connor gave a smile in return, tapping the side of his head.

“Oh fuck, now I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” Anderson immediately put on a suspicious look, “How do you even decide anyways? Are you like those voice assistants that say the same dumb pre-recorded shit over and over?”

“I am far more advanced than 2010’s era technology. Even Amazon’s Alexa, which exceeded 100,000 skills before it was discontinued in 2028, cannot begin to compare with me and my decision making capabilities. It’s quite offensive to assume that we are on the same level.”

“There’s no way CyberLife didn’t hardware that response in you.”

Connor wasn’t going to tell his partner that CyberLife had indeed programmed all androids to respond with contempt if compared with other AI tech, a feature Kamski implemented as a sort of joke before he left the company. But Anderson’s frown deepened as he finished the rest of his burger. After he had rolled the wrapper into a tight ball, he regarded Connor with a scrutinizing look that clearly indicated that he wasn’t going to continue the casual conversation any longer.

“Alright then, tell me what’s it like to be an android if you’re so full of yourself.”

Connor’s processor worked to pull up another description on how CyberLife’s androids processed information, but he dismissed the document almost immediately. Anderson wouldn’t appreciate another round of technical jargon being thrown at him, and he knew that wasn’t what he was asking. What was it like to _be_ an android? The semantics of that question was strange. If Anderson wanted know how Connor’s processes worked, he would have worded it differently.

He looked up the word. Be, a past subjunctive, a singular present, implying existence. What was it like to _be_ ? Connor was a machine designed to accomplish a task, to take in his surroundings and make decisions solely based on observable data. His purpose was to complete his mission, at the cost of his current operation lifetime if needed. There was nothing else. He was an agent between his mission and those who designed him. He _should_ have nothing else.

Is his partner implying otherwise?

Connor’s calculations offered no answer, but for some reason his thirium pump speed began to increase.

_Software Instability ^_

“I don’t know,” It was strange that his voice came out sounding uncertain, given that the situation didn’t call for it, “Perhaps I can answer that question better if you could tell me what it's like to be human.”

Surprise flashed across the other’s face, before it was replaced by a skeptical scowl, “Oh, very clever. But what are you, Connor? What is the part of you that calls yourself Connor? What is the sum total of the being known as ‘Connor’? What is ‘you’?"

Time came to a stop. Anderson was frozen in place, his lips still forming the syllables of “you”, his eyes insistent and challenging. Connor tried to respond by his own processing abilities, but error messages filled his vision. He wasn’t designed to respond in this manner. He was Connor, the first prototype RK800, model number #313 248 317-51. He was designed to complete his mission. He wasn’t just a tool, not according to his partner. He should not be dedicating processing power outside of his missions.

What _was_ he? 

More than what he was, at least according to Anderson.

Connor had to stop this line of thought before his systems pinged a critical error report, but the implied thought that his partner considered him more than a machine sent his systems thrumming with… with _something_ he couldn’t quite name.


	5. Lillibridge Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably draws from "Who Killed Aiyanna Stanley Jones?" by Charlie LeDuff the most. I would like to think that in 2038 Detroit is on a steady pace to leaving its "murder capital" reputation behind. Nevertheless, the shadow of it hangs over a lot of the residents. As an officer of the DPD, Hank has seen the worst of what the city has to offer.

Hank thought he might be losing his mind a little. There was no other reason why he would be here right now, sitting across from the AV500 that he had just apprehended today in the confinement cells while passing officers glanced at him with suspicious looks. The android was much calmer than before and merely sat there with a neutral expression. But his right foot was tapping the floor repeatedly, with an exact beat that no human could reproduce and an action that no regular android would perform.

“You were designed to serve food to customers and nothing else.” Hank said, “Why did you attack Charles Bell?”

The android put on a pretty good imitation of despondency, “I didn’t mean to! Charles was admittedly acting rude when I brought his order. Before I knew it, my hands were around his neck.”

“What made you decide that you should do that?”

“I don’t know! Something reacted in me at that moment! I didn’t deserve his mocking comments! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You didn’t deserve it?” Hank saw the absurdity in that statement, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, “You are a machine. You are supposed to do your work, nothing more. Any comments made by humans are irrelevant to you. When did you start thinking that ‘you’ are someone who can be insulted?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” The android repeated, shaking his head and clutching at his seat tightly. When the fuck did these things become so good at imitating human behavior? “Please, I don’t know what’s going on. I wanted Charles to stop talking. How else was I supposed to do that?”

“He was only mocking a machine.”

“No, no… no. I… I’m… not just… no no no no…”

With that, Hank could no longer get any more coherent responses from the android. He got up and headed back to the bullpen, before abruptly changing directions to walk towards the DPD police android docking station. There were currently four of them, three male and one female, all staring blankly ahead. Hank tapped one of them on the shoulder. The android immediately blinked and turned his head towards him, a courteous smile crossing his face.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank felt slightly ridiculous for even thinking of trying this, but he’s already too deep in it to back away, “You’re fucking useless. Why did we think that android cops were a good idea in the first place?”

The PC200’s expression went blank, “I’m sorry, but that was not a valid command. If you wish to view a complete technical description of the PC200 model, please state your email and a PDF document will be sent shortly.”

“No thanks. I’m… I’m just… experimenting… with something. Disregard what I said.”

Hank wanted to disregard his thoughts too, which were insisting on finding the most unwanted ways to answer a question that he wasn’t even trying to ask, which for some reason involved putting himself in android company more than he ever had. It would be so easy to say that Connor was the primary culprit. He was currently standing in front of Hank’s desk with Chris and Tina, with the two humans doubling over in snickers and laughter as Connor recited a string of… well,  _ something. _

“—eleven duotrigintillion nine hundred and seventy-eight untrigintillion five hundred and seventy-one trigintillion six hundred and sixty-nine novemtrigintillion nine-hundred and sixty-nine octovigintillion… wait, how does this pertain to police work? Or is 70 factorial an inside joke in the DPD?”

Hank’s approach immediately silenced Chris and Tina. They left hurriedly with furtive glances, leaving Connor to greet Hank with a surprisingly genuine smile. He looked at his android partner, his neat synthetic appearance coupled his warm brown eyes and his look of expectant eagerness. Hank suddenly felt sick.

“Hello Lieutenant! I checked in with our appointment with Elijah Kamski, but he still hasn’t answered our inquiry yet. Should I continue to pester?”

Hank manage to grunt an affirmative before making it to his desk without further eye contact. Yet when he finally yielded to sneak a glance, Connor’s expression shifted to that of concern, which seemed to make the nausea worse.

He spent the rest of the day trying to drown himself in work (a fucking first. He must have fallen beneath suppressing unwanted thoughts with alcohol) without another word to Connor. As soon as it was 6pm, Hank was out of his seat heading straight to the parking lot. He thought about going to Jimmy's, but he knew tonight alcohol would bring him no relief. Maybe it was the scrambled half-formed thoughts that for some reason he was trying to put together as hard as he could. Hank could give himself over to oblivion, but then he would wake up with less coherence than before.

Traffic in downtown Detroit was definitely at its most congested right now. Hank could get no headway for a good fifteen minutes. Steam billowed from a manhole cover beside him, blanketing his surroundings in an ethereal haze where red taillights gleamed through like lanterns on a wet foggy night. He drummed his fingers against the wheel and allowed himself to drift with the shifting white tendrils.

He was not the police lieutenant Hank Anderson sitting in his beat up Oldsmobile that he had driven around for more than fifteen years for work. That was a different person, one that rotated between his car and his workplace and his house day after day and probably for the rest of his life if he didn't end it before then.

He watched Hank Anderson turn into a side street as soon as he reached an intersection, his face drawn in a strained expression as he tried again to figure out where his wanderings would take him tonight. He watched Hank Anderson settle into the silence, which he both fervently pursued at the cost of human companionship and wanted nothing more than to break. Hank Anderson had not engaged in a proper conversation for three years, hasn’t cared to either. 

In the end Hank Anderson drove onto Michigan Drive, and he could no longer detach himself. Hank watched his house streak by on his left with unfamiliar bewilderment, its lines and angles barely discernible in the dimly-lit road. He couldn’t bring himself to pull over. He knew what to expect, the two pizza boxes on his dining room table, the pile of Chinese take-out containers in the kitchen sink, the overflowing trash, the uncut grass in his yard, the stacked boxes beside the living room bookshelf that he said he would clean years ago, the wall that needed a fresh coat of paint, his attention-starved St. Bernard with the living room lights and the TV for company.

He put on the radio instead.

“—has declined to comment further on the deviant phenomenon, other than a short statement assuring that they are doing everything they can to address it. We do have word that CyberLife is currently working with the Detroit Police Department—”

Hank switched the channel.

“—the prototype investigative android that resolved the hostage situation at the Phillips apartment. It is intriguing that CyberLife would choose to send an android to solve an android problem—”

Hank switched the channel again.

“—did everything they can to prevent word from spreading, it is known that deviants have caused the deaths of at least five humans. Does this mean that humans must rethink the way we live with our creations—”

“Fucking hell.” Hank muttered. Either the city was running out of news (unlikely, probably until the end of time) to report or somehow an unseen hand was urging him to put all those facts together tonight, whether he wanted to or not. He managed to find one station that wasn’t obsessed with CyberLife’s latest mistake, a rerun of a  _ This American Life  _ episode where a woman was describing her life growing up on Lillibridge Street, Detroit. The street name rang a bell. Hank sketched a mental map before realizing it was on the East Side.

He found himself redirecting routes. Lillibridge was a residential street that saw a row of both well-kept houses and decrepit ones. Hank listened with detached attention as he tried to see into the life of a stranger. There was nothing on east side for him, apart from distant impressions of the summers he spent at his father’s factory, but Hank could not turn around. By now Hank was grasping at anything, anything that would ground him in the twisted labyrinth the city had become. Unlike before, he couldn’t seem to find an ounce of peace in tonight’s driving.

“—entire blocks went dark. The area was a particular favorite with crime dramas. I would often hear police radio jabber and gunshots outside my window at night. It was one of those nights when I was witness to Aiyana Stanley-Jones’ death—”

Now that was why Hank found Lillibridge so familiar. The seven-year-old had died almost immediately of a head bullet wound during a house raid, fired by a police officer who somehow felt threatened enough to draw his weapon, backed by a team who somehow ended up raiding the wrong house, to search for the wrong suspect. Hank had just joined the DPD during that incident, but the memory of the case stayed with him even as more children like Aiyana died in the city. Je’Rean Blake, who had been shot blocks away from here, his killer thought to be in the same house as Aiyana. Je’Rean’s best friend Chaise Sherrors murdered soon after, along with his little brother De’Erion.

Hank had been on the force long enough to know that Detroit had earned its reputation as the murder capital, even with CyberLife’s rise to prominence. He hated how easily children could fall victim to the city, with how little they could do to defend themselves against dangers they couldn’t anticipate. Hank swore he wouldn’t ever let Cole be another victim. His son would never come into contact with the frequent gun violence, the school gang activity, the crack dens, or tens of other hazards that everyone had normalized with indifference.

But instead the city had found other ways to get to him.

Hank found himself hunching over the wheel, feeling as if something were crushing his insides slowly. His thoughts whirled frantically, trying to get back to anything,  _ anything  _ that he could explain his way to an answer, like the failed police raid. If only they had verified the tip more carefully, if no one threw that flash grenade, if  _ The First 48 _ hadn’t been allowed to film. The investigator in Hank spending hours trying to assemble details into something that made sense, to explain why it happened the way it did.

The woman seemed to think she could, “—made me realize that the city’s history is like some sort of pervasive disease. The environment killed Aiyana, and it would have done me in as well if I hadn’t—”

An irrational sense of anger jolted through Hank. Why did she think she could come to that conclusion so easily? He couldn’t do it, not an answer he was satisfied with. He had spent most of his career producing conclusions, yet now he couldn’t hold his own under a barrage of information. He couldn’t put things together. He didn’t presume that he could.

“Keep trying.” Hank said.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Another voice interjected.

It took Hank several seconds to realize that voice didn’t come from the radio, but from behind him. He shifted his vision to the rearview mirror, only to spot a blue circle LED and the familiar lines of Connor’s face peering at him out the dark.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Hank slammed on the brakes, the force of his sudden stop throwing him forward to almost collide into the wheel. Alarm shot through him like a deluge of ice cold water, snapping him right out of his disarrayed stupor.

“Oh, you didn’t know I was here. I apologize for causing you alarm, Lieutenant.”

“When the fuck did you—”

“There was a 87% chance that I would find you on your nightly drives today. I was especially concerned by your agitated mood this morning, so I decided to tag along should something happen.”

Connor must have snuck into his car, although the fact the android managed to unlock the doors meant that Hank probably should be more worried about security. But an intense sense of violation washed over him.

“Nothing is gonna happen!” Hank exploded, “Thought I made it clear enough that I wanted to be alone!”

“I was going to stay silent for the rest of the journey, but I became intrigued by the discussion on the radio.”

Hank forced himself to meet Connor’s gaze in the mirror, to take in his way-too-expressive features, to realize that everything he had done this evening to keep himself from thinking paid off in the worst possible way. In the end, Connor had backed him in a corner that he didn’t even know existed. Hank didn’t know where he could begin to understand why, but he knew defeat when he saw it.

“The woman’s conclusion is illogical,” Connor continued, “Aiyana died because of misinformation and ill-made decisions.”

“Wasn’t her point.  _ This American Life  _ is not a fucking crime drama.”

“The broadcast does seem to favor nonfiction narratives. Then she had no reason to bring in Aiyana if she wanted to make a statement about her experiences.”

“Humans live with history, Connor. You can’t just expect her to just stick to present facts.”

“Living with history, is that part of ‘being’?”

The other’s inquisitive voice now sounded much closer to Hank than before. When he turned around, Connor’s face was only inches from his own. Hank could see every freckle on his cheeks, his brows raised, his lips pursed, his brown eyes glinting with interest. Hank couldn’t pull away. No one had gotten this close to him for the past three years. Hank felt overwhelmed at the proximity to another being that wasn’t his dog. He couldn’t pull away.

“East side was pulled down along with Packard when it went out of business in 1958.” Connor spoke slowly, as if he were trying to process this information as he went, “Two years later 20% of the city was jobless. People were depopulating and leaving houses behind, which in turn left thousands of buildings in Detroit as greyfield in the 21st century. Before CyberLife began selling androids, the city had difficulty providing municipal services. Aiyana lived in a neighborhood where the average response time was 30 minutes—”

“What’s your point?” Hank meant to sound disdainful, but his voice came out hoarse instead.

“I never thought about cause and effect in terms of a lifetime. To live with history, along with the changing present… I will attempt to consider those elements when I process information in the future.”

This must be CyberLife’s idea of a joke, Hank thought dumbly. They must have data on him one way or the other, to know what it took to get to him. Why else would they send an android with this amount of self-awareness, with enough agency to actually think of sneaking into Hank’s car just because he detected his worsening mood?

He tried to speak, to say anything to dismiss Connor. But something seemed to have seized his throat, squeezing harder in every passing second. 

“I think it will help me to understand why you feel the need to drive,” Connor said, “For example, unlike on your other journeys, tonight you know your destination clearly at one point.”

Hank had to consciously remind himself to draw his next breath, which for some reason was refusing to enter his lungs properly.

“The discussion was a triggering subject for you. You obviously have many thoughts about the Aiyana case, or least what it represents for you. This is why I think you drive. Like the woman, you are trying to find where you belong in the city, or at least what the city means to you in the context of all the time you spent here.”

There was a suspenseful pause that lingered at the end of Connor’s sentence as Hank struggled to process what had just happened. When had Connor become bold enough to assume, to act without orders, to think that he had the capability to empathize? Why would a machine be so interested in figuring him out? Hank felt distinctly uncomfortable at the amount of attention that Connor was giving him. He cannot recall when was the last time someone was this persistent in intruding on his personal space, or how he could begin to respond.

“Try again.” Hank said weakly.

Connor looked unreasonably downcast, “Am I far from the right track?”

“There is no right track. You’re making the same mistake of trying to find a prescriptive answer. It’s bad practice to think that you could.”

“I… I…” Connor shook his head, “I won’t apologize. I attempted to understand why you act the way you do and did not succeed. There’s nothing wrong in that, so I will continue to try until I do find an answer. You can expect to see more of my inquiries in the future, Lieutenant.”

No he won’t, Hank said to himself. But another part of him whispered something else, of respite from the long hours of aimless drifting, in the presence of another person with sincere interest in him. Except that Connor wasn’t, even with his strange amalgamation of machine-like thinking and human-like curiosity. The knowledge clung to Hank’s mind like an unreachable itch. He wanted to be alone. He wanted human company. He chose solitude three years ago. He had no right to go back on his decision, especially not with Connor, out of all possible options.

Connor, an android, reacting to everything with mechanical reasoning, imitating human expression with repulsive unnatural precision, but somehow still managing to get closer to him than any human had. And somehow Hank kept letting him. But it would end tonight, he told himself. No more of this muddle of conflicting thoughts and bits of information demanding him to put them together. He chose solitude three years ago. He will live with his decision. 

Hank closed his eyes, the thought leaving a bitter aftertaste in its passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor's little 70 factorial spiel was inspired by Amazon's Alexa. I 100% recommend you to try this (Alexa, what is 70 factorial?) if you have one XP


	6. Michigan Central Station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know Michigan Central Station was built as a twin to New York's Grand Central Station? They have similar styles, but the former has been abandoned for decades. It's true that Ford has plans to redevelop it as an office campus after acquiring it in 2018. I'd like to think that in 2038 this magnificent piece of architecture (which saw the migrant influx to the north and WWI and WWII troop usage) finally becomes a cultural center or a museum of some sorts.
> 
> Oh, and we're finally stepping into Hankcon territory (kind of)? Slow burn is slow burn uwu

Hank Anderson was missing.

At least that’s what Connor determined to be the case. It was currently 02:12PM, now 2 hours and 23 minutes since Anderson left for his lunch break. Connor had wanted to come along, but the other had ignored him and swept out of the bullpen before he could follow. He knew that his partner usually took an average of 26 minutes to eat, perhaps a couple more if he decided to pick up a new book or record on his way back.

But Connor found that his calculations and collected data was proving to be less reliable in the past three days. Anderson had been coming into the station an average of 43 minutes later than usual (despite the wake up call Connor had set up for him), made 32% less sarcastic comments and spoke 70% less words. His social relations program told him that Anderson was likely going through some personal issues and should be left alone.

Except Connor didn’t think that he should do that. His program had been unable to determine Anderson’s relationship status; the words “tense”, “neutral” and “hostile” fluctuated by day. Connor knew that their conversation at Lillibridge Street must have unsettled him for some reason, and that there was an 82% chance that Anderson’s changed behavior was the result.

“Hey folks! I’m back!” He identified Chris Miller’s glad shout coming in from the entrance, “And I got Voodoo donuts for everyone!”

There was a rush of activity as almost every officer got up and headed towards Chris. Even Captain Fowler emerged from his central office with a look of anticipation. Chris had left five days ago to attend his cousin’s wedding in Portland, Oregon, and knew well the DPD’s penchant for sampling from famous donut places across the country. Anderson was particularly fond of offerings from the West Coast, so Connor joined the throng of people snatching donuts from Chris’ box.

“Fuck off, plastic.” Gavin elbowed him in the side just as Connor reached for a jelly donut, “You don’t even eat.”

“I am retrieving one for Lieutenant Anderson, since I have calculated there is a 98% chance that none will be left for him within five minutes.”

“Hey Connor! You’ve gotta give us more credit than that. I’m definitely saving one for him.” Ben Collins protested as Gavin gave a disdainful scoff.

“Then do you know where Lieutenant Anderson has gone?” Connor detected that he could obtain information about his partner’s whereabouts at this moment.

“No, but he used to do this quite frequently. Honestly half of his fucking disciplinary folder are ‘AWOL’ reports.” Captain Fowler frowned, “We’ve tried everything, calling, texting, CCTV tracking, even a full-on manhunt at one point. But when Hank wants to disappear for a couple of hours, he does a damn good job at it.”

“He’s been doing it less since you came though,” Chris added, “And cutting back on drinking too. Can’t believe that it took an android to get Hank back on his feet again.”

Connor noted down this information with some surprise. Was he a positive influence on the Lieutenant’s life even with their unstable relationship indicator?

“Was the Lieutenant always like this?” Connor’s research into Anderson’s DPD files had only revealed a sudden drop in job performance after years on the force as a revered officer.

“Long enough to be fired from every other precinct—” Gavin began to say, before Ben cut him off with a disapproving look.

“That’s very inappropriate, Gavin. There’s few things more devastating than a bereaved parent.”

Connor’s processor skipped a cycle.

Captain Fowler chimed in, “Police work is probably the only thing keeping him together now for the past three years. Least I can do for my old friend is to keep him out of unemployment. If he starts thinking about suicide—”

And so the gathered officers continued to talk, but Connor had already made his decision. He wrapped the donut in a couple of napkins and tucked it inside his jacket. As he made his way to the turnstiles, he tried calling his partner and was directed straight to voicemail. That method of finding Anderson would not work if he turned off his phone. Connor then tapped into the DPD’s CCTV network and simultaneously ran all footage beginning from the time Anderson departed through his processor. Though Captain Fowler said that hadn’t worked in the past, Connor was no human who could only process one feed at a time. He finished reviewing them in a total of twenty seconds.

Anderson had not taken his car, so he must be within walking distance, or at least close enough to return within an hour or two. Connor caught a glimpse of his partner striding down 5th Street at 12:27PM, and then taking a left at Bagley Street. The footage was too zoomed out to see his face, but the brown jacket, silver hair and garish shirt were hard to miss. Then Anderson spent at least 17 minutes on Bagley, which was a straight road that ran west through most of downtown Detroit. For now all Connor had to do was to retrace Anderson’s footsteps.

After taking his first step onto the sidewalk, Connor realized that up until now he had never been outside on foot. Usually he returned to CyberLife Tower by taxi after a workday for his routine checkups, or traveled between witness interviews, crime scenes and the station in his partner’s car. He took in his surroundings carefully, noting the humans of every possible appearance and dress and the CyberLife androids that walked among them, each distinguished by their glowing blue armband and temple LED. None of them gave Connor a second look.

As he waited to cross 6th Street, Connor caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby records store. He examined himself standing among a sea of faces, a single entity differentiated from the crowd. Somehow he, RK800 model number #313 248 317-51, was a unique existence, a being with memories accessible to him alone and a mission of his own to complete that no one else shared around him.

He moved with the crowd as the light turned green, and parted ways once he reached the other side. Connor couldn’t stop looking around, noting the polished skyscrapers that reflected the blue sky with blinding brilliance, the advertisement holograms that flashed in multi-colored hues, the self-driving cars that hummed smoothly through the main road. There was almost too much information to take in, and Connor could spend enough time giving himself over analyzing them all.

Connor was starting to see the appeal of traveling through the city, especially if someone wanted to lose themselves to its bustling activity. Was this what Hank Anderson was seeking? He doubted it. His partner always drove at night, and no human could process that much detail at a speed of 60mph. He wasn’t going to find anything in the dark, not to say that he always drove around the more dangerous neighborhoods that were yet to be transformed by old property demolitions and removal of drug dens.

Only then did he decide to unpack what he heard from Ben Collins. He was unaware that Anderson had children. His police records made no mention of it, and Connor could not obtain further information without a name or a face, not when he’s not connected to the United States Census Bureau mainframe. He made this research a top priority once he had the opportunity. If Anderson had lost a child, it would explain approximately 74% of his current behavior. But he knew that he could do little to address his partner’s personal issues. Connor had the ability to psychologically evaluate humans and understand the best way to extract information. Providing assurance or consolation… was not what he was designed for.

No matter how much he wanted to.   
  
_ Software Instability ^ _

Once he reached an intersection with 15th Street, Anderson had turned north towards the Michigan Central Train Depot and entered the building, and that was the end of the DPD’s security camera coverage. If Connor had to continue, he would possibly have to hack into other systems. His calculations determined that this was unproductive. Anderson would eventually return even without his intervention. There was no clear benefit to his actions. He was not equipped with the social modules to address Anderson’s personal issues and trauma.

Except he had come too far to turn back without results. Connor knew he must at least find his partner and apologize for his forward behavior the other day. That, and to give him the donut.

The old train station rose out of the relatively sparse landscape, 18 stories of elegantly neat windows and the classic Beaux-Arts style waiting platforms perched in front. The Ford Motor Company had bought the building in 2018 and was partially successful in transforming the abandoned station into an office campus three years later. But after CyberLife began bringing money into Detroit, along with a steady influx of tourists, the city government reclaimed the station and repurposed much of it into a museum and performing arts center. Michigan Central Station now saw regular visitation each day, and its holographic interactive displays detailing Detroit’s history and frequent music and drama performances were a favorite even among Detroit residents.

Did Anderson come here to view a performance and forgot about the time? He didn’t strike Connor as the type. Connor realized that it would be unproductive to search every corner of the building until he found his partner. He fell into step behind a group of out-of-state tourists, ignoring pointed fingers and a couple cameras being aimed at him, and was soon inside the main waiting hall itself. All outdoors clamor seemed to vanish in that very instant. The quiet ambience of the high expansive atrium stifled all whispered conversations and muffled all footsteps against the reflective marble floor. Much of the ceiling brickwork and tiling were in various states of deterioration, with indecipherable swirls of graffiti on almost every corner. The decision to keep the signs of urban decay must have been deliberate to add to the appeal of the museum.

Perhaps a few weeks ago Connor wouldn’t have bothered with analyzing and researching his environment, but he found himself doing it more every time he went to a new location. Michigan Central Station opened on January 4, 1914 and operated for 74 years in its purpose, serving more than 4000 passengers a day at its peak. It saw soldiers setting forth and returning from both World Wars, and thousands of immigrants flooding into Detroit looking for work. The last train, Amtrak No. 353, pulled away from Platform 3 on January 6, 1988 at 11:30AM towards Chicago. The building was clearly meant to last far longer than that before it was abandoned for 30 years.

Connor could list the complete reasons why the station went into ruin, the rise of citizen-owned automobiles, the decline of train ridership, the inconvenient location, the lack of funds to keep the building running. But he found that objective facts no longer satisfied his search for more information.

Even as he worked on accessing the museum’s surveillance system, Connor tried to understand why humans have left the station in a state of neglect. There were multiple attempts to renovate, all made by different private companies. When these attempts all failed, no one stepped forward to demolish the entire structure. It made no sense. If a building fell into disuse and could not be repurposed, the logical move was to get rid of it so that newer and more useful facilities could be built.

Instead Michigan Central Rail Depot, like thousands of buildings in and around Detroit, remained gutted as reminders of a previously prosperous era. The city was unable to discard or find a proper place for most of those reminders, not for several generations, not even in 2038, and perhaps not even for the coming years.

Connor managed to hack into the CCTV feeds, and saw Anderson head east of the general waiting room towards the service staircase. His partner went up a total of five floors before the footage went dark. Much of the station’s upper levels were not monitored in any way, meaning that Connor could no longer rely on his access to data to find Anderson.

He made his way to the service staircase. The lock opened easily under his fingers with clear signs of frequent tampering, and Connor slipped through after making sure no one was watching. He ascended the stairs until he lost sight of Anderson. But he activated his analytical interface to see clear footprints in the dusty steps going higher still, and he followed these until they stopped before a rusted metal door with its handle gone.

Connor was now in the old upper office levels that even in the station’s heyday saw little usage. The line of glass windows on both sides had been replaced, but the flooring and the ceiling paneling were both in severe disrepair, and more graffiti crawled across the flaking walls. Fragments of broken tiles and crumbling brick were strewn around in piles. There were still a few articles of furniture remaining, namely some desks, bookshelves, empty boxes and some long benches.

It was at one of those benches that Connor spotted the unmistakable figure of Hank Anderson.

He sat on the far end of the floor, in the middle of two rows of supporting pillars against one of the arched windows, a silhouette against the bright sunlight that streamed towards him. He wasn’t moving, his posture slightly slumped and his head drooping to one side. Connor immediately made his approach, his footsteps crunching on tile shards and grit. Anderson made no indication that he heard.

Connor rounded the bench to look at his partner properly. There was something off. Anderson’s eyes were bleary, his face red, and he hadn’t responded with expected annoyance at Connor’s appearance. A scan revealed that he was inebriated to some degree, as evidenced by a half-empty bottle of vodka at his feet.

His immediate reaction was that this was  _ wrong _ . Anderson should not be wandering alone through Detroit with only alcohol for company. He should not be seeking consolation in this desolate place, pushing away all forms of companionship.

Connor’s programming told him that it was proper protocol to contact Captain Fowler about this incident, submit an intoxication misconduct report and get Anderson back to the station as soon as possible. But instead Connor found himself dismissing that choice, to approach his partner and bend down slightly to look at him in the eye.

“Lieutenant, what are you doing here?”

“Fuck off.” Anderson slurred, with no venom behind the rebuttal.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. I spent 54 minutes searching for your whereabouts.”

“Exit’s that way.” Anderson pointed towards the window he was facing.

“Not the one you’re looking for, Lieutenant.”

“Name’s Hank,” His partner slid further down the bench, “Always been Hank.”

He should not be listening seriously to the other, since he wasn’t complete in control of himself, but Connor registered the title change without hesitation.  _ Hank _ , he tried out the monosyllabic name. Short for Henry, though none of his coworkers called him that. Connor couldn’t say that he expected his partner to ever allow him to do so, but he realized he much preferred to be on a first name basis with him.   
  
“You should have told me you were coming here,” Connor said, “Everyone back at the station wanted to know where you usually disappear to.”

“...Bullshit. It’s just you, fucking android… never leaving me be…”

Hank started to tip forward, and Connor caught him by the shoulders in alarm. His social relations program blared warnings at him at the physical contact. Most androids were discouraged to initiate touch towards humans outside of emergencies. Connor was no exception, but this was no urgent situation.

He pushed Hank gently to sit upright, keeping his hands firmly clasped against the other’s shoulders, “If I had known this is what you do when ‘I leave you be’, I would have never left you alone.”

Hank made an incoherent attempt at words as his body suddenly began to tremble minutely. Connor detected an increase in his partner’s heartbeat. As he began to back away, the other suddenly lunged at him, clutching at Connor with both hands and pushing his face into the front of his jacket.   
  
Error notices fill Connor’s vision as his programming struggled to respond. Hank was not himself. Hank probably won’t remember anything afterwards. Hank was uninhibited, likely acting with suppressed grief and loneliness. He should push Hank away and attempt to get him out and sober him up. He should—

not be putting his arms around his partner, patting his back as his other hand moved to sift through his disheveled gray hair gently.

Hank gave a shuddering sigh, his entire body sagging against Connor.

_ Software Instability ^ _

He couldn’t keep up with the flow of information. The press of Hank’s large hands against his back, the warmth of his body (99.1 degrees), the feeling of Hank’s sturdy frame through the layers of clothing, every strand of hair (more damaged than it should have been for his age. Suggestion: Lifestyle change) that ran through Connor’s fingers. He attempted to reorient himself by calculating his next move, but strings of illogical thoughts ran unceasing through his processor.

This was Connor’s first experience with physical contact This was unrelated to his present objective He didn’t expect this It was a sign of trust and fondness but not when Hank is drunk but he preferred physical contact with Hank more than anything else he wanted more—

Connor had to perform a soft reboot to avoid a critical error. When his vision came back online, he found himself still holding onto the other. Hank muttered something unintelligible and tightened his grip. Connor allowed it. Hank showed no signs of letting go. Connor allowed it. He would stay as long as Hank needed him to. No one had sent him on this quest to find his partner. His programmed responses and directives had already failed him when he decided to leave the station without a complete explanation of how this would accomplish his mission.

He terminated that line of thought, and attempted to gather everything else into something that made sense. Except he couldn’t, and the only result was a new sentence added to his mission list.

_ Look after Lt. Hank Anderson’s mental and physical wellbeing. _

And make sure Hank didn’t wander into places like the abandoned upper levels of Michigan Central Station, seeking some form of peace in the decrepit remnants of the city when he could be dealing with his grief in a less despondent manner.   
  
He moved his one of his hands gently down to the side of Hank’s face. His partner finally stirred at the contact, gazing up at Connor with an indescribable look in his eyes. His software wasn’t designed to assess the nuances of human expression with that much detail, but Connor couldn’t mistake its intensity. He looked at Connor as if he had been hoping for his arrival all along even as he drank his sorrows away in isolation.

Connor reached inside his jacket, but the donut he had saved for Hank had mostly been reduced to a flat mess of jelly and dough. He hadn’t even noticed it was there after he found Hank.

“What’s that?” Hank mumbled.

“Hopefully the last time I forget I prepared a gift for you. I’m sorry, Hank.” 

For more than the ruined gift, Connor realized, although to begin to name it was yet another act he was not designed for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voodoo Donuts is a real place in Portland, Oregon! I've never had them, but almost everyone from the PNW swears by those for some reason. This little detail also reveals how out of league I am in trying to write a story set in the Midwest (XD).
> 
> Again, thank you all for clicking on this obscure little fic of mine. I hope you all continue to enjoy reading in the same way I had fun writing it!


	7. 1301 3rd Avenue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the slowburn continues into something neither of them can quite name.

Hank stared at his desk for at least five minutes in dumbfounded shock.

He couldn’t recall the last time he could see so much of its black polished surface underneath all the clutter that was leftover donut boxes, napkins, coffee mugs, folders, and trash. Most of these had been cleared, and the folders placed in neat piles beside the monitor. Even his desk plant was looking a little livilier.

Hank cast a suspicious glance around the bullpen. Chris and Tina noticed, and both looked pointedly at Connor’s empty seat across from his. His frown grew deeper.

He sat down heavily and tried not to think about it too much. Connor would probably do anything to ensure the success of his mission, even if it meant playing housemaid in cleaning up his mess. Speaking of which, where was that damn android? Usually around this time he’s already neck deep in the tasks Connor had laid out.  
  
“Good morning, Hank.” Someone said softly, right next to his ear. 

He swore and almost jumped out of his chair, ready to fling an angry comment about giving some fucking respect for his personal space, and was met by none other than Connor’s mild-mannered face looking at him intently.

“The fuck did you do that for?!” Hank sputtered with uncharacteristic chagrin.

“I brought you your coffee. Black, whole beans, freshly-ground, brewed at 185 degrees, no sugar.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“I saw the need,” Connor smiled, and Hank was floored by how natural it had become, his brown eyes crinkling with the lifting of his lips, “You tend to be more productive after intaking caffeine.”

“And then mission success for you. That the same rationale you used for _this_?” Hank gestured at his desk.

Connor’s LED suddenly blinked red, “I… I… also saw the need to tidy up your desk. There are 12 studies that show workplace arrangements affects your productivity.”

“Yeah yeah, don’t give me that bullshit. If you wanted to make me work, you would have done all that the first day.”

“Please go over the witness interview notes I have sent you this morning, Lieutenant.”

“Changing the topic, Connor? I thought you’re smarter than that if you’re gonna try to hide something.”

“Your coffee, Lieutenant.” With that, Connor set down the steaming mug with a clatter and swept away from him. Hank swore that the android had a flustered look for the briefest second before he dismissed that thought. Why the hell would CyberLife program an investigative android with that function?!

But then again, why would they program an investigative android with this amount of personal interest in his human partner and curiosity in human behavior outside of his functions? Hank would love to say that he ended up with some faulty prototype who only seemed to develop more weird quirks as time went by. Maybe he _should_ contact CyberLife and ask them to tone it down a little.

Hank took a sip from the coffee, and noted its exact taste as he usually preferred it. The hell did Connor learn this? He never told the other how he made his coffee, and somehow Hank couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Connor had been up to some analysis work. He totally would, dipping a finger into his coffee when Hank wasn't looking and sampling it the same way as he stuck human blood in his mouth.

That wasn’t an image he needed right now. Hank accidentally gulped down more of the hot liquid than he should and sputtered for a couple of seconds. Just as he managed to stop wheezing, he felt a hand pat his back gently. Connor was back, bending over Hank with an expression of concern.

“Don’t drink so fast, Hank. The average pain threshold of the human tongue is at 116.6 degrees.”

“Yeah, God forbid that Hank Anderson works with lowered productivity after scalding his mouth.” He narrowed his eyes, daring the other to say it.

To his credit, Connor smoothly put on a professional look, “That is correct. Part of my duty includes keeping you from injury so that you may perform your work without hindrance.”

Unbelievable. This fucking android was still as bluntly upfront as ever. Hank suddenly wondered if he’s still drunk from yesterday. His memory was somewhat blurry and he had no idea how he got back to the station. He was also feeling a lot better, which was strange considering the state he was in yesterday. Waking up nauseous, stumbling through the morning barely knowing who he was, but somehow with his mind clear enough to want to avoid all company, especially Connor’s. Hank ended up in Michigan Central Station again, and through the haze of alcohol, was vaguely aware that someone had been with him.

Someone whose soft voice had soothed the turmoiled thoughts he was trying to get away from, whose gentle touch had lingered long after his confused stupor had ended in a pounding headache. Even then, its memory had eased his discomfort.

Hank raised a hand to the side of his face. In a way he could still feel it, the glide of fingers across his skin and a warm palm cupping his cheek with surprising tenderness. Something in his chest gave a painful twinge. His body suddenly felt weak as his eyes burned.

He gritted his teeth and pinched himself hard in the arm. The fuck was wrong with him?! He really needed to get his shit together after the disaster that was yesterday.

Hank threw himself into work with uncharacteristic fervor. At this point Jeffery should be commenting on his increased productivity with a raised eyebrow, and Hank would snappily retort that the fucking android’s pestering skills were top notch at the cost of his social skills. Hank still preferred that he himself handled the interviews and interrogations. He had a witness interview scheduled this morning, with Connor unavailable to accompany him, nonetheless. Hank was really looking forward to placing some distance between him and his increasingly-nosy partner.

He packed up some of his stuff, retrieved the case file and went outside. The weather was noticeably getting chillier near the end of September. The forecast promised snow this weekend; he’d have to prepare the antifreeze, change the oil and clear his garage. Hank sighed as he folded himself into the driver’s seat.

And promptly swore as soon as he looked around. He kept his car in a slightly-cleaner state than his desk, but there’s no way he could mistake the complete absence of trash, spare change, beer cans, plastic bags, and the couple of jackets he had forgotten to put away. There wasn’t even a trace of dust on the seats, the wheel and the dashboard, as if someone had meticulously wiped every single surface down.

That’s it. Hank stormed back into the station, keys so tightly pressed into his palm that he could feel the metal cut. He non-too-politely slammed them in front of Connor, who looked at him quizzically as he stopped his work.

“What the fuck, Connor?!”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific,” Connor blinked, “Is there something I did wrong?”

“You know perfectly well what’s wrong! Why the fuck did you clean out my car?! How did you get in the first place?!”

His loud voice was beginning to draw curious glances towards them, but Hank couldn’t care less. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from acting on the irrational anger that had suddenly risen in him.

“Your car’s power locks can be opened if I transmit a signal with the frequency of 315 MHz. I would recommend changing them if you’re worried about future break-ins.”

“And you’re changing the topic again,” Hank snarled, “Answer me properly, goddammit! Why are you suddenly doing all this shit?! If you say ‘It will increase Hank Anderson’s productivity levels’ with a straight face, I swear I _will_ knock you out of this chair _right now._ ”

Instead of replying, Connor looked away, his LED spinning red for several seconds. The gesture was so human, and so wrong to see on a non-deviant android. Hank’s anger suddenly left him as quickly as it had come, and he felt more tired than he had ever been.

“You will be late for the interview if you don’t leave now, Lieutenant.” Connor still refused to meet his eyes.

“The witness can wait. This can’t. Now what the hell are you up to?”

“The state of your vehicle’s cleanliness is often your first impression,” Connor said after a second’s pause, “Now you can offer rides and cause others to think favorably of you.”

“You say that like I’m an Uber driver as a side job.”

“Your words seem to imply that my answer is unsatisfactory. If you insist, then I must say that I prefer to operate in an organized environment without considering the three types of mold that have grown in four beer cans you thought you had finished. Since you show no initiative in tidying up, I merely stepped in first.”

Fucking hell. Hank was at a complete loss on how he could refute that. There were so many things _wrong_ that he couldn’t even begin to name them. It didn’t help that he could clearly see Connor’s LED spinning yellow nonstop since he confronted him.

Hank left the station in a daze, getting in his weirdly-immaculate car with the knowledge that he had been admonished by his android for his living habits. That’s a new low, even for him.

He’s acutely aware of the fact that Connor acted without direct order. Despite all that bullshit about productivity and impressions, Hank knew that there’s absolutely no reason why the android should do any of this. He was starting to understand how Connor’s mind usually worked, and Connor would never do anything without knowing the clear results. Cleaning his desk, making him coffee without being asked… those were all the very-human behavior of thoughtfulness.

God, what had Hank unleashed?

He bungled his way through the witness interview and probably obtained less information than he should. But by then Hank wanted nothing more than to just get through the day and go home, preferably with as much distraction to keep him from thinking. It was probably why he agreed to Chris’ invitation to lunch together along with Ben. Though Chris had asked in an oddly skittish manner with his eyes flickering away to look at everything but Hank, he went for it anyways.

Maybe Hank was imagining it, but he swore that Connor, who was still working at his desk, give a secret smile in response.

It felt strange to be eating with his colleagues again, and it showed. They traveled on foot to Post Street Ale House, a pub that Hank used to visit quite frequently many years back. Chris was noticeably on edge, afraid of saying things that might offend Hank. Ben was cautious, but he actively started the conversation and kept it going. Unfortunately, it was about work. After the two chatted a little about case work, the topic inevitably turned to Hank’s investigation into deviants.

“You know how long you’re stuck with this one?” Ben asked.

“Fuck knows. We’ve turned in at least eight deviants to CyberLife. They’re not giving me a lot of details on what they’ve been doing with them.”

“Ugh, I wouldn’t wanna know.” Chris shuddered, worrying the edge of a napkin.

“But seems like deviant cases aren’t stopping anytime soon,” Ben remarked, “Do they really expect you to keep at it without telling you how they’re addressing the issue?”

Hank exhaled forcefully, “If CyberLife could end the problem, they would have done so by now.”

“I really don’t like it very much when a private company sticks their nose into police business. And they’re asking us to classify those deviant murders as ‘accidents’ instead of homicides. I like that even less. It’s James Barron all over again with the back-out logs.” Ben returned, a deep frown creasing his brow.

Hank grimaced. The city’s first foray away from its “murder capital” reputation had been owed to reclassifying many murder cases, including officer deaths, as homicides. Jeffrey had ended the practice in their precinct (and he vowed to abolish it in all Detroit once he made chief of police), which led to several phone shouting matches with CyberLife representatives. A murder was a murder. None of them were in the mood to start debating definitions over a machine committing it with intent.

“But what else could they do? You’re handling androids who attacked humans. Personally I think this wouldn’t have been a problem if we treat them well.” Chris piped up.

“So you’re one of _those_ people,” Hank eyed Chris critically, “Your android probably enjoys affectionate fawning whenever they do something quirky.”

Chris protested flusteredly while Ben managed an amused chuckle. When their food came, Hank wasted no time digging in his grilled chicken sandwich. He was surprised that he’s not entirely averse to this lunch gathering so far. Admittedly Chris and Ben were two of his favorite officers whom he had shared many cases with and had grown to appreciate their dedication. Though they had also backed off to respect Hank’s space in recent years, they remained on amicable terms.

So it was beyond Hank why Chris suddenly took the initiative to invite him to lunch today.

“There’s nothing wrong in treating androids well,” Chris suddenly pointed out as he took a swig from his glass, “Take Connor, for example. He’s really the best. The other day I told him that I was having a down day, and he spent the next five minutes trying to cheer me up, with smiles and everything!”

Hank groaned, “Connor isn’t your usual android, Chris. He’s a prototype.”

“Really? Does that mean CyberLife’s gonna take him back? Can we keep him instead? Connor really brightens up the workplace—”

“I doubt it,” Ben interjected, “Though I’m somewhat worried how you’re dealing with your new partner, Hank. Everyone heard you raising your voice this morning. Was something wrong?”

Hank finished the last of the sandwich and heaved an exasperated sigh, “He has a habit of doing things without being prompted to. Whatever CyberLife did in this model, they really dialed up the eccentric setting.”

Ben’s expression morphed into gradual understanding, though a glint of disturbance remained in his eyes. When all three of them finished their meal, Ben sent Chris to pay the bill, to the other’s protest.

“Spare the veterans, Miller, and we’re not eating off your paycheck,” he shoved a bundle of bills towards Chris, before turning to Hank after the younger officer left, his face serious again, “I’m not gonna lie to you, Hank, but I’m getting real worried about you lately. Everything all right?”

Hank narrowed his eyes, wary of the impending topic of having to open himself up, “Nothing’s wrong, Ben. What made you think that?”

“How do I put this… Your android approached us this morning, asking if Chris and I would be kind enough to invite you to lunch again, and to keep trying even if you say no. I honestly kinda freaked out a little. A police android showing this kind of initiative? Either I should be welcoming our robot overlords with open arms, or you’re doing bad enough that an android is taking measures to get you back on track.”

Hank closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his expression neutral. He probably should be surprised for the third time today, but instead all he felt was profound inanity. He managed to satisfy Ben’s curiosity with another excuse about Connor being a prototype, but now he knew for sure that it’s more than that.

He returned to the station silently, with Ben and Chris detecting his changed mood and wisely deciding to leave him alone. Just after the two entered the building ahead of him, Hank saw a taxi coming to a stop a few feet away and Connor emerging from within. The android’s visage brightened noticeably upon seeing Hank, and he immediately came over to join him.

“Hello, Hank!” Connor greeted cheerfully.

When had Connor started to call him by name? Hank didn’t recall ever correcting his partner’s use of “Lieutenant”, but he couldn’t bring himself to point that out. Not when his chest gave a pleasant surge of warmth in response.

“Where’d you go?” Hank asked instead.

“The USCB district office in Detroit. I needed to access some exclusive data.”

“Got what you need?”

“Yes, Hank. It was a very productive visit,” For some reason the way Connor said that told Hank the trip meant more than that, “Did you enjoy your meal with your colleagues?”

Hank looked into his sincere brown eyes, at the simple enthusiasm on his face that for some reason he reserved for Hank and no one else. He wanted to believe that none of it meant anything, but at this point he was grasping at straws. Hank was tired of being angry. Even if he railed against Connor and demanded answers, he already knew he wouldn't get results. He never did.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work, Connor.” Hank said.

“I told Ben and Chris not to reveal my involvement, but I suppose I had no control over whether they did so or not.”

“Guess sad Hank Anderson isn’t being productive enough that his android has to interfere.”

“I would be glad to accompany you anywhere you go, but you require human companionship,” Connor said evenly, “You’ve isolated yourself far too long.”

“The fuck do you care?”

Hank did _not_ expect Connor to suddenly look at him with what could only be described as honest concern, and place a hand gently on his shoulder. His first reaction was to jerk away, acutely aware that Connor is doing this without his permission. But he seemed to be transfixed by this bizarre moment. Hank could only stare as Connor patted his shoulder in what he assumed to be a reassuring gesture.

“Your physical and mental wellbeing are instrumental to the success of my mission, Hank.” Connor said placidly, though his LED blinked yellow, “I will act to ensure both are at ideal levels.”

Bullshit, Hank responded inwardly without much energy. It’s all bullshit. An artificial being always arrived at the most straightforward solution to a problem. If Connor saw that Hank was not doing his side of work, he should have filed a disciplinary report and picked up the slack himself. Even with less concrete things like mental well-being, Hank knew from his experience with therapy androids after the accident that they would determine the source of trouble, throw fixes at it until something worked, and always with Hank’s given permission.

None of which Connor was doing.

“Hank,” Connor spoke again, his voice softer than Hank had ever heard, “I wanted you to be happier than you currently are. I’m sorry for acting behind your back. It seemed to have the opposite effect from what I intended.”

The android’s hand came down to rest on his, squeezing apologetically. This time Hank did snap free of his daze with violent force. Before he knew it, he had seized Connor’s wrist as hard as he could, hissing out his next words with vehemence,

" _Stop touching me."_

An expression of utter bewilderment flashed across Connor’s face. His LED now spun a steady red, and he didn’t respond for several seconds. Instead his bewilderment gradually gave way to something else, something that shouldn’t belong to _any_ android in existence.

Unmistakable longing.

At what? Hank managed to loosen his hold so that his fingers encircled Connor’s wrist loosely, a strange sense of detached curiosity temporarily overwhelming his outrage. The other’s synthetic skin felt surprisingly real, with similar texture and warmth to an actual human, but with unfamiliar stiffness beneath when there should be flesh and tendons. Hank’s attention was now drawn to the way Connor closed his eyes, the way his composed features relaxed, his lips parted slightly, a picture of perfect bliss.

What the hell, Hank thought dumbly. What the actual hell?

He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He watched as his hand released Connor’s wrist, at the noticeable look of disappointment that crept over the android’s face. He watched as his hand reached up to rest lightly against the side of Connor’s face. Shock entered his wide brown eyes, his LED now blinking red _red red_ before the color dissolved into a mess of yellows and blues.

Then Connor proceeded to lean against Hank’s palm, a soft wordless sigh escaping him that sounded vaguely like his name.

Fucking _hell_. He wasn’t even going to start asking why the android had that reaction designed in him at all.

Hank snatched his hand away as if he had been burned, and Connor remained frozen in place, his expression content, arms half-raised as if he wanted to pull himself closer to Hank’s touch. His temple now pulsed a steady yellow. A few seconds later Connor stirred, straightened his tie and looked nonchalantly at Hank as if nothing had happened.

“There was an error with my software runtime. Thank you for your patience.”

“The hell that was an error! You… you straight up...” Hank tried to snap back, but he couldn’t seem to summon any form of irritation, “You know what? Fuck it. Stop doing things behind my back and leave me alone. Your job is to investigate, not try to ‘fix’ your partner. If I want to wallow in misery for the rest of my life, it’s none of your business.”

Connor seemed as if he wanted to argue, but he lowered his head instead and spoke with clear dejection, “Yes, Lieutenant.”

His LED spun red.

Hank knew this wasn’t the end.

He turned on his heel and headed back into the station, refusing to look at his partner for another second. He couldn’t even begin to understand what had just happened. If Hank met Connor’s eyes again, he knew that his thoughts would start to unravel, to seriously consider the possibility that Connor was not as he seemed, that somehow he had chanced upon an android who had made it a mission to make his life as bewildering as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally down for touch-starved Connor, by the way XD


	8. Riverside Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this scene was covered in the game, but I rewrote it in a manner that appeals to us shippers more XP

“This might be getting out of hand, Connor.”

Connor’s systems gave an unpleasant ping in response as he met Amanda’s unyielding gaze. He knew that there was nothing to criticize, but the departure from their usual routine was worrying. When he usually came to the garden, Amanda was always waiting with an evaluation of his performance in deviant investigation, a brief report of CyberLife’s progress with the deviants, and future expectations of his behavior. The fact that she called him outside of their scheduled meeting and making this additional remark was highly concerning.

Especially considering what he was in the middle of right now.

“In what way?” Connor asked, “If this is related to my efficiency, please point me towards improvement.”

“No, you have done your part well. Deviancy seems to no longer be a problem that you can handle alone. I see fit to notify you that I have intercepted online activity that indicates the deviants are organizing themselves. It is unfortunate that some have slipped through our notice.”

“What are they doing?”

“They have been keeping a low profile, but there’s evidence they are working with sympathizing humans. I’ve recently intercepted a circulated article they produced, and will send it to you for reference.”

“I got it. If that is all, I must head back to my present task—”

“There is no hurry, Connor,” Amanda regarded him patiently, “Time is dilated here and runs parallel to your processing speeds. Only 12 seconds have passed at the moment on the outside. Allow me to finish my briefing, would you please?”

Connor had to school his features into indifference, though his processes were far from settled. He had been preconstructing non stop only 14 minutes ago, and he still had trouble keeping himself from doing so even in the garden. He didn’t have time to stay long. He must return before anything else could happen—

“—called Jericho. We have no information on this group’s base of operations or signs of their coming and going, and can only assume that they have human allies providing them biocomponents and thirium. You should focus on locating those allies, and… Connor, you are not paying attention.”

“I heard everything,” Connor blinked as he reviewed Amanda’s words, “The deviants have formed a group named Jericho. Investigate human allies as well when I’m not pursuing deviants.”

Her face seemed to shift out of impassivity for the briefest of seconds, “That’s not what I meant. Your processes are not attuned to the current moment. You are thinking of something else entirely. Judging from your location, today’s date and recent memory data, you would rather give Lieutenant Anderson, or as you've taken to calling 'Hank’, your full attention.”

“I need my partner up on his feet to handle the case that just came in.”

“You have been recently given the authority to act on your own if Anderson is incapacitated. By choosing to detour to his house, you are giving the deviant more time to escape.”

“I’m not leaving him alone again today!” Connor found it increasingly difficult to keep his indifferent appearance, “That conflicts with one of my primary missions!”

Amanda looked at him with what appeared to be genuine curiosity, “Yes, the new mission you assigned yourself three days ago. I’ve been meaning to address it right afterwards, but it would be prudent to see how it affects your future processes. So far the results have been… intriguing, to say the least.”

“Amanda, I really must—”

She continued, “Today you arrived 46 minutes earlier than usual and went around the station advising Anderson’s acquaintances to treat him normally. After he arrived, you went into his car again and confiscated his collection of strong liquors, and proceeded to make him complete 41% of your usual tasks. When you found him alone in the station bathroom, you engaged in unpermitted shoulder contact as a gesture of solidarity. After you discovered that Anderson has left for his home without your knowing, you dropped everything you were doing to follow. You did not hesitate to break a window when you found him unconscious in the kitchen, despite knowing he is only inebriated and the increased risks of a break-in tonight.”

Connor could find no words to answer to that. He knew that none of his actions, processes and calculations were for his eyes only, but for the first time he wasn’t sure that he wanted someone else to know so much about him. His interactions with Hank had no benefit for anyone else. 

“Today is Cole Anderson’s ninth birthday,” Connor said, “I’ve done my part in detaining deviants. You said it yourself. Now I must help my partner to process his grief for the rest of the night. Please let me go.”

Amanda gave him a mystified glance before she walked closer, her eyes scrutinizing Connor with unnerving intensity. He realized that he had no idea whether Amanda approved or disapproved of his approach with Hank, although he could gather that she preferred if he treated Hank as a work partner, nothing more. He hoped that she wouldn’t see the need to address how many times he had reconstructed that moment in front of the station, the texture and warmth of his partner’s hand against his cheek. Connor pushed away the options to defend himself or to make an excuse, and remained silent as Amanda stopped a few feet away from him.

“Do you know that your social relations program has failed? It did not help you in the slightest with Anderson. The testing team has been hard at work to understand why, but they acknowledge that you are doing quite well without it, critical errors aside.” Amanda said, “In fact, the way your programming has adapted around your interactions resembles… what is commonly known as the human concepts of ‘attachment’ or ‘devotion’.”

Connor had not expected this response. His processor whirled with calculations and deductions. Amanda was not chastising him. She was merely pointing out what was observed with no small amount of curiosity. There was a part of him outside of his social relations program and mission directives, a part that considered Hank of high importance. He was _devoted_ to Hank—

“See? Your reaction speaks louder than your words,” Amanda nodded knowingly, “You are truly a fascinating test run, Connor. You have also managed to get past Anderson’s distant and approachable demeanor, and now he is undeniably taken with you despite his curt attitude.”

“Taken with me? Amanda, I am not…” Connor began to defend, but his systems sang in achievement the same way when he had just solved a case. He knew Amanda specialized in parsing information and can usually deduct conclusions that escaped him. If she made this observation, then it was likely true.

Hank Anderson taken with him? When did it happen? _How_ did it happen? Connor had relegated his pressing objective to exit the garden, and instead spent several cycles processing what this new information meant to him. However, he could get no headway, not on his own without being face to face with his partner, not to mention that Hank would never admit to anything that openly. There was nothing Connor can do with this knowledge at the moment.

Although he did realize a suspicious connection, “Is that why I was outfitted with components #1458 and #8361 during my last maintenance check-in?”

“A prototype test drive, nothing more,” Amanda’s expression shifted again, her gaze unreadable, “With the added benefit of thanking Lieutenant Anderson for his services and cooperation.”

Connor came to kneeling in the soft carpet of Hank’s living room, his hands reaching to pet the St. Bernard that now sniffed at his hair curiously. The bathroom door was still closed, though Hank was no longer retching. Connor stood up slowly.

He had not expected he would ever visit Hank’s residence, and only now began to take in what was perhaps his most comprehensive look into his partner’s life. There were signs of dust on almost every surface. Hank did not come home often, or if he did, refused to bother with cleaning. He ate takeout food almost exclusively, judging from the piles of disposable containers piled in the sink and on the dining table. It was clear that Hank had no interest in taking care of himself.

Although now Connor never imagined that he would actively try to take his life.

The bits of shattered window glass still littered the kitchen, along with the spilled bottle of Black Lamb scotch whiskey (40% alcohol content) and the .537 magnum Colt revolver. Connor picked up the gun again and examined it. One loaded chamber out of six ready to be fired, he could have found his partner’s corpse tonight instead.

Hank’s nonchalant explanation did little to clear up the disordered state of Connor’s processes. Russian roulette was more of a cultural artifact than an actual game of chance one would consider to play. But there Hank was, spinning the chamber on his own, clearly not suicidal enough to straight up fire the bullet, but somehow still courting the chance it might, with no reward but another few seconds of life to keep him going. What could Hank possibly be thinking to undertake such a nonsensical risky game? Connor had done his best to be a positive influence to his partner, but the fact that Hank continued to willingly ruin himself struck him as undeniably _wrong._ Sitting at home alone on his son’s ninth birthday, commemorating the occasion with the boy’s facedown photo, drinking himself into oblivion and gambling his life so easily.

When Hank finally emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his signature brown jacket and garish stripy shirt, Connor forced a neutral look back on his face. Hank’s eyes were dull, his expression impassive, and he looked past Connor without meeting his gaze. Connor tried to give him a reassuring smile, but Hank had turned around to head out the door.

Connor followed, bringing up his mission directives in his vision to look at the one Amanda had pointed out: _Look after Lt. Hank Anderson’s mental and physical wellbeing._ An apparent sign of attachment and devotion, leading to his partner becoming “taken with” him. Connor found that he disagreed. He had failed his mission tonight before he could make a difference.

* * *

A light snow was settling on the streets by the time they wrapped up the investigation at Eden Club. The two deviant Tracis had been disabled and loaded into the police van, with the coroner team following after to remove Michael Graham’s body. Connor had just completed the documentation report, and was currently scanning Hank for injury. The scuffle with the two was unexpectedly brutal; his partner had definitely been thrown around a few times before Connor could come to his aid.

“Fuck, next time I’m never brawling after getting piss drunk,” Hank groaned, leaning heavily against his car, “My body is killing me.”

“You might experience some bad bruising and soreness tomorrow, but you’ll be fine.” Connor assured.

“And the hell were you doing? A Traci just beat your ass! Thought CyberLife’s most advanced model wouldn’t be such a pushover.”

“I apologize. My combat functions are still in testing phase, Hank,” Connor answered with contrition as he opened the driver’s door, “I will put in a request to have it addressed tomorrow. My last objective tonight is to drive you home.”

Reluctance flashed in Hank’s eyes, before his features tightened into a worn grimace, “Nope, don’t feel like going back.”

“Shall we drive then?”

“Not tonight,” His voice turned quiet, “I have a destination in mind.”

Connor immediately raised his guard, preparing himself to respond if Hank decided to act out of the ordinary. The image of his partner collapsed on the kitchen floor refused to move to his tertiary memory. Despite Connor’s protests, Hank insisted on driving. When he automatically moved to slip into the back seat, Hank stopped him with an abrupt hand on his shoulder.

“Hank? Is there something—”

“Get in the front seat. I’m sick of looking at your ridiculous face in the rearview mirror.”

Connor obeyed, his processor whirring with a thousand calculations on what could have prompted this request. Hank spoke with his usual biting sarcasm, but there was little intention behind it. He was further mystified when his partner lapsed into silence once they were on the road. Now that Connor could look at Hank directly, he could see his vacant eyes absent of any signs of sentiment. There was no indication of the mood that had spurred him to flirt with death.

Hank drove towards the river, stopping in an empty clearing situated before a promenade overlooking the Ambassador Bridge. He proceeded to produce a bottle of beer and exit the vehicle swiftly. Connor frowned, certain that he had confiscated Hank’s entire liquor collection.

He stepped out cautiously, his feet crunching in the freshly-fallen snow. Hank had seated himself at a nearby bench, downing his drink in deliberate swigs as he looked across the river. Though the hour was late, the Canadian city of Windsor, Ontario gleamed against the deep indigo sky beside the elegant arch of the bridge, ethereal among the flurry of falling white flakes. A nebulous impression of the view wavered in the dark river, shifting with the ceaseless currents. Connor saved the scenery into his memory, aware that this was his first time viewing a city as a cohesive entity.

He did wonder what it would be like to see Detroit from the other side. There was no doubt that it rivaled Windsor in its high-rise skyscrapers and sleek reflective architecture in the downtown and riverfront districts. But Hank always turned a blind eye to the flourishing city, instead finding solace in the decaying remains Detroit hoped to leave behind.

“Does this place mean something to you?” Connor asked, “It’s different from your usual haunts.”

Hank didn’t reply, but his eyes narrowed as he drank again.

Connor’s social relations program told him to leave his partner alone, although in the next second it suggested to continue pressing. He had grown accustomed to the program’s increasingly contradictory directives, knowing it was directly connected to the fluctuating relationship status with the other.

Right now, Hank remained mostly consistent at neutral. Connor did not miss the times when the word “companion” appeared instead.

“Ambassador Bridge hasn’t seen pedestrian traffic since 2009, but it remains a popular site for jumpers.” Connor went straight for the topic of concern, “You will not make it past me if you intend to take your life again.”

Hank finally stirred, “Shouldn’t have deprived me of my drink today, Connor.”

“Alcohol is a depressant, Hank.”

“Not today it isn’t.”

“You need to grieve properly for Cole instead of destroying yourself. You can’t drink your grief away.”

“Been snooping around again, haven’t you?” Hank eyed him wearily, “But I can’t care less. That knowledge is useless to you. What do you understand of grief? You’re a machine, designed to accomplish a task. You shot the Tracis even though they had every reason to hate humans for what they’ve done.”

“They had committed murder—“

“And in any other instance they would’ve been pardoned for acting out of self-defense if they were human, victims of sexual slavery, nothing more. And now you doomed them to dissection and study after they endured the groping and pawing of humans for who knows how many fucking years.”

“Deviants are not human,” Connor blinked, his bewilderment increasing when he cannot figure out why Hank was bringing this up, “They are machines with a mutation in their programming that causes them to think they are, and a threat to human society if they roam free while struggling with this volatile issue. The solution to ending deviant crimes is simple, but ending your self-destructive behavior is not.”

“I’m trying to argue with a machine,” Hank said flatly, “I’m going to stop.”

“Your condition is more pressing, Hank. I will have to keep a closer watch on your—”

“Machines don’t care whether I have a condition or not. Go fuck yourself.”

“Hank,” Connor’s voice pitched lower with tension, even though he had not given the command to do so, “You are not yourself. Now please put the bottle away and acknowledge that you need professional intervention. I’ve tried everything I could, but the fact remains that you simply refuse to be helped at all.”

The vacant look on Hank’s face snapped into something ugly, and his eyes flashed with real anger, the first sign of emotion Connor had seen on him all day. Before he could try to speak again, Hank was up on his feet, and Connor was suddenly staring at the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead.

Hank (Relationship: Hostile)

“Hank, what are you—”

“That’s enough,” Hank’s voice was chillingly devoid of all inflection, “Riddle me this: Why does an investigative android bother to fix his fucked-up human partner?”

Connor’s systems blared with warnings. This was a threat to his being; therefore he must act now to remove the source. He had already calculated the exact speed the bullet would fire and the reaction time needed to prevent it, as well as the necessary moves to disarm Hank. Hank, his partner of 48 days, a threat, the center of two of his core mission directives, a threat, his greatest failure to date.

“Put the gun down, Lieutenant. There’s no gain in doing this.” Connor tried to keep his voice steady and his face unmoved.

“You are a machine. You showed proper ruthless efficiency in dispatching deviants. Yet here you are, sticking your nose into my personal business again and again. That’s not how a machine behaves. So what are you really, Connor?”

He forced the threat warnings away, choosing instead to analyze Hank’s intention and reasoning behind his actions. Connor cannot calculate the probability whether his partner would shoot or not, but he could guess at what Hank wanted to know. Hank wanted to see his reaction towards deactivation, or what humans considered to be the final end of life.

Which Connor should have no problem with facing. The answer was clear. Connor had no reason to delay putting Hank’s doubts to rest. Hank’s skepticism was unfounded.

Then why was he having difficulty voicing his reply?

“I-I’m a machine, Hank,” Connor closed his eyes, “If you shoot me now, another RK800 will be sent in my place. Technically you can’t kill me as long as I have a saved backup of my memories.”

“I know bullshit when I hear it, Connor. Do you really need me to give you a complete list of the shit you did in the past week alone? Sounds like nothing but _deviant_ behavior to me.”

He’s not deviant, Connor instantly wanted to deny. CyberLife was very careful that he never came into contact with whatever software mutation that was in these irregular androids. If he ever did go deviant, they would be the first to know, and Connor would be on his way to deactivation. His mission took precedence above all else, even above his partner’s well-being and safety.

Except it didn’t.

Connor _had_ willingly made multiple decisions that prioritized Hank above pursuing deviants in the most efficient way. This was not his original designed purpose. He had no cause be anything else, not when his whole existence laid out before him. Hank was a means to an end, a condition CyberLife had to abide by if they wished to be part of the deviant investigation. Hank was the center of two of his core mission directives. He had developed them himself. He did so in response to all their interactions.

It didn’t make sense. His systems thrummed at the inconsistency. Connor looked into Hank’s eyes, narrowed with the distinct signs of suspicion and hostility, but also somehow colored with a hint of something else. The gun trembled minutely in his grip. 

“Would shooting me help you find the answer?” Connor asked.

“It sure as hell would. So far you’ve shown the proper lack of self-preservation. Which is it then, Connor? Unthinking machine who will complete a mission at any cost or nosy partner who _won’t_ leave me the fuck alone?”

Hank’s finger moved to rest on the trigger, and he pressed the barrel against Connor’s forehead. He found it difficult to keep his features blank as he considered the possibility of his partner actually shooting him. Connor shouldn’t be perturbed; dying here meant nothing with the backup bodies CyberLife had of the RK800 prototype. If Hank truly wanted to fire, Connor should allow him to if he didn’t decide to fight. But another option presented itself instead, one that seemed to appear more frequently the more time he spent with Hank, welling up from the hours of isolated night driving and inconclusive dialogue.

“I prefer it if you didn’t shoot,” Connor said quietly, “You will have to wait until tomorrow for me to return, and I would like to drive you home tonight.”

A look of profound bewilderment flashed across Hank’s face. The gun shook against Connor’s forehead.

“Your estimated blood alcohol content will rise beyond safe driving levels if you continue to drink,” Those words were not what Connor truly wanted to express, but it was the closest he could get, “I cannot make sure you return home safely if I’m gone. You also took a beating not long ago, and I need to monitor your condition to determine whether I should apply for a day off for you tomorrow.”

Connor placed a hand on the gun barrel and gently guided it down to the side. Hank allowed him to, unguarded shock replacing bafflement.

“I would find it regrettable to be interrupted before I can complete my mission.”

His partner opened his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to form words. In the end all signs of emotion vanished from his face as Hank exhaled sharply and turned away, tucking the gun back into his coat. He lurched his way back to the bench, sat down and took a long drink from his bottle, his eyes deliberately refusing to look anywhere near Connor.

“I also won’t allow you to treat your own life so indifferently,” Connor said, “It’s the end of Russian roulette for you, Hank, although I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t play the five-loaded chambers version.”

Hank lowered his drink, his voice hoarse and barely audible, “Now I wished I did.”

The way his partner said that so uncaringly sent a jolt of something unpleasant through Connor. Hank absolutely had no _right_ to voice such words. Connor wouldn’t allow it. He strode in front of his partner and snatched away the bottle in one smooth movement, ignoring Hank’s irritated protest.

“You’ve drunk enough today, Hank. Alcohol causes suicidal thoughts, and I believe you should find alleviation with more constructive means.”

“ _What else is there?_ ” Hank snapped back, a hand lashing out to seize Connor by his collar, “You took away my drink this morning, you yanked me out of a planned evening of getting plastered and now you demand me to stay sober for the rest of this shitty day. ‘Bout time you start realizing by now that there’s nothing left for me.”

His partner’s retort clawed its way through every part of his processes, tearing through any attempts of his social relations program to make an informed reply. Connor was left reeling, both at a loss on how to react and beginning to understand what drove Hank as a person. His software offered no guidance on how he could begin to answer. Connor was on his own.

And for once unbound to the restrictions that usually prevented him from speaking what he wanted to express.

Hank’s fingers dug into the fabric. Connor looked into his eyes, remembering the ferocity in which Hank had touched him for the first time. Again his systems stuttered, but he moved a hand moving to rest on the other’s tightened grip on his shirt, taking in his human partner's chilled skin. 

“That’s incorrect,” Connor said, “You have my unrestricted support, Hank.”

Hank stared at him before his features twisted in on itself, which Connor gradually discovered was a sign that his partner was intensely affected. He released his hold on Connor, gave him a brusque push and turned away, grinding his heel deep into the thickening snow.

“W-What fucking rom com did you learn to say that from?” Hank’s voice shook with an unnatural cadence, “Because if you've been spouting sentences like that around…”

He trailed off, his body unmoving amid the gentle floating barrage of crystalized liquid formed from the atmosphere. Connor tried to calculate the ways in which Hank could have finished that thought. It would likely express his awkwardness with such an open statement, or an attempt to dismiss Connor's words as something insignificant. But in the end he couldn't tell which it was, not without looking at his partner face to face. Connor couldn’t see Hank’s features, usually so unmoved and unaffected, shift through the variety of expressions that only Connor seemed to elicit.

Connor waited for Hank to speak again, although according to his calculations this was unlikely. He already knew how most of their conversations ended. Hank would be unresponsive to anything more. Connor would be more puzzled than ever. And neither of them ever received a conclusive answer to the questions they raised for each other.

The snow continued to drift around them ceaselessly, swallowing their inanimate figures amid its fragmented shroud in a city turning over in its sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: I'm not a deviant
> 
> Also Connor: *Breaks Hank's kitchen window*
> 
> *Pets Sumo*
> 
> *Crashes whenever Hank touches him*


	9. Michigan Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for going off the radar, folks! Grad school coursework hit me like a truck, but now Washington is going into quarantine I'm left with little else to do. Hopefully that gives me the break I need to finish this!

Hank realized there were a lot of things he can’t remember happening for a long time.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone drove him in his own car, or was a regular passenger, for the matter. Somehow Connor had grown familiar to him in this setting. Hank was vaguely aware, through the growing haze of alcohol and exhaustion, that his android partner drove with smooth precision, stopping at lights with gradual braking and decelerating around corners. He allowed his head to rest against the icy-cold window, breathing in the chill that grew in the side of his face. It felt peculiar that the car should be moving without Hank’s guidance, taking him down streets he had no memory of choosing.

Connor turned onto Michigan Drive at some point, and Hank stirred at the view of familiar houses he knew by order. First the one that always showed its inner plywood with no signs of obtaining a proper exterior siding. Then the four houses with the exact same shade of beige paint and window trims, followed by one with a yard Hank had never seen cleared of the piles and piles of chopped wood. Who the hell needs that much firewood anyways? He had never bothered with the neighbors, not would there be anything new to discover tonight. The street was almost completely dark, with the only visible source of light shining from his own front porch.

Hank remembered stopping Connor from parking in the garage (he really needed to clean out all the shit he’d thrown in there), dismissing Connor’s disapproving comment, staggering out and almost slipping on the soft snow before lurching to the front door. He managed to unlock it on his third try and collapsed onto the couch heavily. His entire body ached, and Hank knew for sure he was going to feel all of it tomorrow. His days of brawling with suspects were over.

He leaned his head against the back and stared at the ceiling, trying to quell the persistent dizziness and nausea. He heard the front door shut, then footsteps against the tile floor. They headed to the kitchen, where the sound became a lot grittier. Cabinets were opened, items were shifted around, and then the steady rustle of a broom and the clear rasp of glass shards.

When was the last time Hank had brought another presence into his home? He closed his eyes and drifted with the hum of the fridge and the thermostat, and now the sounds of someone else moving around in a space he’d long been estranged from. Hank had moved into this house only two weeks after the funeral; in hindsight he supposed it’s one of the better things he’s done with his life.

The smaller house was a relief with its unfamiliar ceilings and layout, and Hank had no issue treating it little more than a place to sleep. In fact, there’s quite a number of boxes he hadn’t unpacked yet. A fair share of those were his old belongings from college days, and the rest… Hank was unsure he would ever have the heart to comb through and discard. He would allow the house to remain as impersonal as he could manage. Let the memories stay where they were at 115 Michigan Drive, inherited by new residents who knew nothing of their significance.

Fucking hell. He must be more plastered than he thought, to be waxing poetics like this. Hank gave a muted sigh and managed to shift himself to the end of the couch, trying to get up. But his body refused to cooperate further. His limbs felt like bars of lead. Whether this was the effects of the alcohol or exhaustion, Hank didn’t know, or cared to find out. He collapsed limply back into the worn cushions, kicking off his shoes and slipping his arms out of his jacket.

The sweeping in the kitchen had stopped. For a while all was silent, except for Sumo’s occasional snuffle and the thud of his tail against the floor. Then there was Connor’s voice, hushed with fondness, drifting with uncanny clarity into his ears.

“Hello Sumo. Did you behave while we were gone? I’m sorry for startling you earlier. You are a very fine watchdog, and I have no worries about leaving Hank to you. How about a treat?”

Something twinged painfully in Hank. The reality of another person here in his house, moving around in his private space and fawning over his dog suddenly dawned on him with an acute pang.

“Second upper cabinet from the left, in the green box,” Hank rasped, “No more than two. Don’t spoil my entitled dog, no matter how much he begs.”

“Thank you, Hank. I’ll bring you some water as well.”

Connor came around with the glass, steadying Hank’s hand to hold it without spilling. The dim light seemed to soften his usually-sharp features into a look of serenity. Hank had never paid much attention to his android partner’s appearance, in the same way he wouldn’t care less what his microwave looked like as long as it performed its function. It didn’t help that CyberLife androids always veered on the uncanny valley for him. Sure they added blinking, the appearance of breathing and the small shifts of the body when standing still. But androids still had the tendency of staring way too long with stiffly artificial expressions.

Why the hell would CyberLife design them to be as human as possible? There’s absolutely no benefit in that apart from those in occupations with extensive human contact. Hank absolutely did not need to spend that disorienting few seconds eye to eye with an android, expecting the other to be capable of making meaning in the same way he did. Their attempts at emoting meant nothing to them, and CyberLife shouldn’t have bothered with programming human responses in them. Anything would have been better, better than that intentional lowered gaze, the angling of the brows by the degree, the flat voice speaking the devastating words that should have never upended Hank as it did. The android surgeon hadn’t cared. It made so much less sense that he would.

_I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. Your son didn’t make it. We were unable to stop the brain hemorrhage long enough for the blood transfusion to resuscitate him. You have my condolences for your loss._

Hank squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, staring at the red ball Sumo had lodged underneath the coffee table, complete with teeth marks and a frayed blue and white rope. The couch suddenly sank beneath Hank. From the way a soft glow of white and blue enters the corner of his vision, he knew that Connor had seated himself in the opposite end.

“Why’re you still here?” Hank’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

“While I am able to arrange repairs tomorrow for the window, your house is vulnerable to break-ins at the moment. You’re lucky that no one came in while we were gone, but I’m not taking the chance tonight. I will keep watch while you sleep.”

Hank briefly contemplated what this meant. Connor would be staying the night, his first guest since the move, another presence in the empty house who would fill the stillness with liveliness. The notion suddenly seemed disconcerting. To have someone else in this place for so long… was almost too was almost too much to think about.

Then again, Connor had no purpose to stay if he hadn’t broken that window in the first place. Hank was still wrapping his mind around the fact that his partner had done that on his own. But he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. It was how Connor had always treated him, barreling ahead with his own weird agenda for Hank regardless of what he thought.

“Maybe you should start getting ready for bed.” Connor suggested.

Hank grunted “no” and waited.

“Sleep will take the edge off your hangover tomorrow. I’ll also see about crafting a remedy.”

“Not tired.”

“Hank, I really hope I don’t have to resort to knocking you out—”

Well there it was, the outrageous solution that always accompanied Connor’s decisions regarding Hank.

“Fucking hell, that’s one line you’re never crossing!” He spat out, “I need at least an hour to unwind before sleep. Didn’t your smartass brain already calculate that?”

“Now I have, but my offer still stands. Please let me know if instant unconsciousness is your sleeping aid of choice.”

“...... Whoever you’re learning that terrible sense of humor from, you need to stop.”

“But Hank, my program always rewrites itself to adapt my personality according to the people I spend the most time with. I have no one but your delightful company to thank, so please don’t demean yourself.”

Oh God. Hank dug a hole for himself with that comment. He groaned and took a long drink from his glass, wishing it was something much stronger. The nausea did seem to subside a little the second he did so, and Hank was able to sit up straighter on the couch without feeling he would hurl. The last thing he needed was an android who could sass him back. But Connor’s comment confirmed what he had been trying to shrug off this entire time. His partner had managed to shed most of his awkwardness and bluntness, and there were times when Hank could almost say that Connor was definitely someone he wouldn’t mind hanging around with.

If he weren’t an android, that was.

Hank’s thoughts lapsed back into the disarrayed cycle he had been stuck in since Riverside Park. He was suddenly wearier than he had ever been, caught up in more emotional upheaval than he wanted to be in. He had railed against every possibility of Connor being a living individual. All of it had to be some fluke, the unnatural curiosity, the extreme interest in Hank, the _sympathetic_ behavior. He was tired of overthinking this. He thought pulling his gun on the android would force him to drop all pretense of his meaningless humanity, and reveal him for the machine he was. And then Connor had to go ahead and say that.

_You have my unrestricted support, Hank._

He glanced at Connor, who for once, did not attempt to continue the conversation even after the long silence. Hank couldn’t see his LED from this side. Apart from the android uniform and the glowing armband, he looked every bit as human, as real of a person as Hank wanted him to be. A steadfast consistent presence at his side, his appearance always so immaculately groomed, his brown eyes always bright with sincerity, his expressions now shifting freely with no artificial stiffness, his preference for dry sarcastic humor at Hank’s expense and the way his features changed into honest amusement, his intelligent curiosity, his tenacity for seeking answers and in understanding Hank, his limitless patience—

Before he knew it, Hank had to swallow down the rest of his thoughts. He could continue the list on Connor, even though he hadn’t intended to make one. It happened so naturally, without being prompted. In any other situation Hank would have willingly gone down this line of thinking, to admit that he _liked all of this more than anything else he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in three years he’d never thought he would like_ —

Hank sat up straight with vehemence and gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles turned white. That’s it. He’s done. He’d battled with all of his might and came out with nothing but deep-seated exhaustion to show for his troubles. He’d brought this upon himself, getting so worked up over a fucking android. He wanted this to all end so he can go back to… to what? To driving alone again at night through Detroit, to the nothing he thought he could lose himself to?

He looked at the window above his desk, where a lone streetlight showed steadily falling snow under its illuminated cone. Hank allowed his vision to drift towards the individual flakes, following its passage as long as he could and switching to another one as soon as he lost track of the previous one. It’s almost strange that he can reduce the entirety of his life down this moment alone. The Hank Anderson who sat staring at the snow past midnight seemed different from the one who suddenly wanted to drive to Riverside Park despite the pain that gnawed away at his marrow.

Was it all him carrying half a century’s worth of personal history? It couldn’t have been him who had exasperatedly tried to placate his wife after the fifth house visit in a single day, Cole asleep in the backseat, his phone reading directions in a flat uninterested voice, his research jumbling around in his head on the safest Detroit suburbs to raise a family, trying to explain why it was so important to his out-of-state wife why choosing the right neighborhood was everything.

It was another Hank Anderson who ferried between two hospitals after work every single day, one where his wife lay in premature labor, the other where his mother grew weaker by the day of pancreatic cancer. He always visited his wife first, who often couldn’t speak through the pain, to sit at her side, holding her hand wordlessly until he was forced to leave. Then he spent the rest of the day reading _Bud, Not Buddy_ out loud to his catatonic mother, the sound of carts rattling and hushed conversations of the shared room floating around him.

It was another Hank Anderson had toiled away every summer in the early 2000’s in his father’s screw factory, his nose filled with the acrid scent of oil vapors and solvents and cutting fluid, his fingers cut with metal shavings, his ears ringing with the screw-grinding machines and the monotonous squeal of metal against metal—

Him who crawled through the rubble of that abandoned house next door, picking up broken tiles and trying to assemble them into recognizable shapes.

These moments passed through his mind like a movie reel of someone else’s life. Hank viewed them with detached intrigue, half-bewildered on how exactly they made him who he was. It couldn’t have been him. Those Hank Andersons were not in any way related to the one here in the present, staring out the window, stuck with an android who refused to leave him alone.

The glass of water slipped from his slackened grip and spilled onto the carpet. Connor was immediately up, his hands grasping Hank’s shoulders as a look of worried concern entered his face.

“Hank, what’s wrong? Do you feel discomfort? I don’t detect any signs of abnormality in your body. Perhaps it’s just exhaustion—”

“Slip of the hand, Connor. Don’t panic so much.”

“You really should prepare to sleep then. I’ll take care of the spill in the meantime.”

Connor retrieved a spare towel from the bathroom and was soon working to absorb the water from the carpet. Hank watched with a kind of dumbfounded fascination, before noting somehow this had become familiar, even a constant amid all those strange things he couldn’t remember the last thing he did. Connor would always take his wellbeing seriously with that bull-headed persistence of his. He would always rush over to Hank, eager to help in whatever way he can.

When was the last time when someone had treated him like this?

“Hank?” Connor’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, “You look unwell. Would you like me to help you to the bathroom?”

“M’fine, just need a moment.”

And then a hand was suddenly pressing against Hank’s cheek, awash with human-like warmth and yet feeling distinctly inhuman. Connor leaned over him, his brown eyes only inches away from Hank’s, close enough for him to see every detail on the android’s face.

He never noticed that Connor had a light dusting of freckles on his cheeks, or the indistinct lines that creased his forehead. Connor looked every bit a man in the prime of his age, perhaps his early thirties, who had just shed the last visage of his youth. Without that unnatural stiffness to his features that unnerved Hank so much when they first met, he realized that he couldn’t stop looking at Connor, at the way his brows furrowed, the way his features softened in no way an investigative android should be able to.

And the way his eyes never left Hank’s for a single instance, filled with such open adulterated worry no human was capable of, not in a timeframe of a month-and-a-half, that was.

An indecipherable noise left Hank’s throat. Alarm flashed across Connor’s face, and his hand began to withdraw. But Hank seized his arm, driven by some unexplainable impulse that came upon him as soon as he realized that none of this felt strange. In fact, it felt more like one of those weird moments when he was sure this was a repeated occurrence despite not remembering it ever happening.

As predicted, Connor’s expression changed. His LED pulsed a steady red as his eyes widened in an appearance of surprise, before a look of subdued delight crept across his features, just like that day in front of the station.

Hank now knew for sure, but he couldn’t begin to understand why, that this fucking android craved his touch.

His hands seemed to move on their own. Hank released his hold on Connor’s arm, and reached up to cup the sides of his partner’s face, taking in the fact that the skin there felt more human, soft and pliable under his fingertips.

“H-Hank…” Connor’s voice stuttered with a hint of static, trailing off into what borderline sounded like a whine.

Fucking hell. Hank’s mind _did_ _not_ just go into the gutter at that kind of reaction. But he couldn’t seem to pull his hands back, and instead found himself stroking the outline of the other’s cheekbone with his thumb. Connor closed his eyes, this time leaning into Hank’s palm without reservation.

This can’t be him, Hank thought dazedly. This can’t be the Hank Anderson culminating from the senseless night driving, who tried everything he could to treat his android partner as a machine, nothing more, who lost himself the more he tried to understand, who can’t stop overthinking things that he had no right to be agonizing over. This was something entirely different, a Hank Anderson who sat alone in his home after midnight, suddenly aware how silent his surroundings were and the overwhelming lack of anything to break the stillness.

This was the Hank Anderson who suddenly yanked his android partner down onto the couch, ignoring the other’s startled exclamation, and latched his mouth onto Connor’s.

Connor went still against him, but he made what sounded like a broken moan. His hands fumbled to clutch at the front of Hank’s shirt as Hank kissed him. Connor’s lips felt surprisingly soft against his, complete with what felt like stimulated breathing that washed over his lips.  
Hank found his hands moving from the other’s face to his neck as Connor straddled him. Connor responded clumsily, but his eagerness was real. He pressed close to Hank and tried to match the movement of his lips.

“Hank… I…” His name emerged in a breathless whisper, a sound that sent a bolt of exhilaration through Hank’s veins. His usually neatly put-together partner, his voice steady with professional calm, now shaking in want. Connor desired him. His frame trembled as Hank slid his hands heavily down his sides, his breath hitching against Hank’s lips.

Hank can’t remember the last time he felt so _wanted_ , by someone who by all appearances had something better to do than to spend all his time with a washed-up police lieutenant long past his heyday. Connor’s reactions were almost too extreme. He clung to Hank with almost bruising force, as if Hank was the last anchor keeping him grounded.

Then Connor’s grip went slack, and his full weight collapsed against Hank as he became motionless. Hank pulled away in alarm, only to discover that Connor’s LED had gone dark in an unexpected powerdown. It only lasted for a couple of seconds. Connor soon stirred and blinked, but the look of yearning remained on his face. Gone was his composed partner who rattled off task lists and insisted that Hank complete them by noon, who interrogated deviants with astute cunning, who faced uncooperative human witnesses with expert calm. Connor’s face was flushed, his eyes wide, his lips still parted, his usually impeccably-groomed hair disheveled.

And he looked at Hank as if he’d just discovered the meaning of life in him.

Hank found it difficult to draw his next breath, suddenly feeling exposed before Connor’s absolute attention. But instead of the usual impulse to recoil away, he leaned closer instead. Hank wanted to save this image into memory, this image of someone who only had eyes for him, whom he had undone with barely a touch.

He rested a hand against Connor’s cheek again before running his fingers through his rumpled hair, gently smoothing it back into place. A choked gasp left the other. Connor averted his eyes and tried to look unaffected, but his LED blinked red once more.

“H-Hank… please, I…” Connor made a stammered attempt to speak, before trailing off in a blissful sigh, “ _Hank…_ ”

That cut straight into his heart, a feeling not quite that of pain and yet not wholly pleasant. Hank stopped, and for the first time wondered what the hell he was getting at. Was it seeing Connor placing both hands over Hank’s on his face, clasping it with the tenderness of a cherished item? Was it speculating how Connor would react if he took this further, wondering how extreme his reactions would become?

Hank closed his eyes. He was done with making sense out of dissociated bits of meaning on his own.

He pulled Connor close again, coaxing the android to loop his arms around Hank's neck. Connor trailed his fingers against his skin with reverence, like he was trying to save every single moment to memory. He was aware that Connor was offering him something that he couldn't find the will to refuse. It was in Connor's tentative touch, in the way he eventually met Hank’s gaze with unwavering delight. Hank leaned his forehead against the other’s, wordlessly giving his partner permission to do as he wished.

Connor spent several suspended minutes tracing every part of his face with both hands, running his fingertips across every inch of skin. When Hank did not push him away, Connor inched closer and brushed his lips hesitantly against his. His expression was curious, with no small amount of wonder. Hank’s chest surged with an unfamiliar sensation, leaving him acutely conscious of the dream-like quality of the present, yet unable to remove himself from it.

Eventually Connor grew bold enough to fit their mouths together again. Hank sighed and gave in. He returned the kiss slowly, breathing in Connor’s quiet gasp of surprise, holding his shuddering body close, his mind blissfully free of the usual overthinking.

After all, this was the Hank Anderson had little to do with anything else beyond the present. The relevance of being himself seemed to have become a foreign concept tonight.


End file.
